Shadow and Sun
by nzmuse575
Summary: Ch 12. In which Legolas’s soul leads Anarwen astray. LOC.
1. The Council and After

24 December, 3018. Third Age.

"And you have my bow."

Anarwen froze at these simple words. She turned slowly to her prince, who was, in the meantime, barely restraining a look of distaste for the dwarf now striding forward to add, "And my axe."

The insolent lord of Gondor launched into his own pledge, but Anarwen couldn't hear anything except her own panicked thoughts. _He cannot possibly be doing this. We are here only as messengers, not as volunteers for this folly. The ring must be destroyed. But in all of Arda, there must be some other elf who could take the Hobbit to Mordor._

As these thoughts raced through his guard's mind, Legolas stood patiently listening to Elrond. A light breeze blew red and gold leaves across the east-facing porch, and the sound of the River Bruinen murmured in the background. His awareness of the elements had returned and peace settled within his heart as Elrond spoke, "… the Fellowship of the Ring." The rightness of it seemed to explain his impulse to follow Aragorn on this mission. And that was all it really had been, an impulse.

Normally reserved, Legolas had felt his emotions running high throughout the entire council. He had bristled at Boromir's condescension to Aragorn. Then he had fueled the tension by revealing the ranger's true identity. The thought that any subject would reject his true king hadn't crossed the prince's mind, so when Boromir spat out, "Gondor needs no king," it was only Anarwen's tug at his elbow and Aragorn's exasperated look that restrained him.

Annoyance at the man from Gondor had quickly turned to anger. It was inconceivable that any elf would let him take the ring to Minas Tirith. The One Ring should have been destroyed long ago, and would have been but for the arrogance of men. Now this braggart expected them to simply hand it over!

The council had quickly disintegrated into bitter words and accusations. Legolas rose to make his own sharp retort to either the dwarf or the man, he hadn't decided which was more in need of a lesson, but he was brought up short by a piercing realization: _The ring is working its will on all of us. Even me._

It was like being thrown in the Forest River. All of Legolas's anger drained away. He stepped forward to put himself between Anarwen and Gimli, hoping to reign in his guard before things got any further out of hand.

She had beat Legolas to the punch with her own furious words for the dwarf. That this son of her King's onetime prisoner had the presumption to insult any elf, let alone her prince, was more than she could bear. Then Boromir had come to the dwarf's aid. _If he cannot bend us all to his will, he'll forge allies among our enemies, she thought. Anarwen was on the verge of punctuating her verbal point with the one on her blade when a small voice spoke, "I will take it."_

In the moments that followed, Anarwen's fury turned to wonderment at Frodo's courage and then blind panic as her prince walked forward.

"And you have my bow."

They hadn't crossed her lips, but they were five words that decided her fate.

***

_I must get him to withdraw from this fellowship. He simply cannot go. He is heir to the throne, not some farmer who can fall in with whatever band of wanderers crosses his path. His father will not allow it. I will not allow it._

The stupidity of this last thought quickly turned her anger to shame. Anarwen could no more order Legolas back to Mirkwood than she could order him to put down his bow. She was his guard. Her only task was to ensure his safety.

Over the twenty years that she had held this post, it had frequently meant walking with Legolas into the heart of the Shadow's evil. Together they had killed more orcs and spiders than either of them could count. A small knot of fear was often her companion in these adventures, but her focused mind and skill with a blade had kept both the guard and her prince alive to see another campaign.

_It just cannot be this one. He cannot go._

Anarwen's focused mind had deserted her after the council broke up. She had said nothing to Legolas when he turned around and asked her to join them for a meeting in Elrond's Hall. Two hours spent pouring over maps, and she had contributed fewer than ten sentences to the journey's planning.

The certainty that _He cannot go had run circles through her mind all afternoon. Now it was almost midnight, and she wasn't any closer to thinking up a way to talk him out of it._

As she walked quickly along the terrace path, she heard raised voices from the gardens to her right.

"She stays for you!" 

Anarwen slowed a little, struck by the despair in Elrond's voice. The fellowship planned to leave tomorrow. These would be the last hours Aragorn could spend near Arwen until the fate of all of Middle Earth had been decided. But he was not at her side. Instead he was here defending their hearts to Arwen's father.

Anarwen did not believe Aragorn would be coming back from this quest.

And for that reason, Legolas could not go with him. More determined than ever, Anarwen turned her attention back to the pathway leading up to the Last Homely House. She would find Legolas and talk him out of this. There was no other choice.

***

Legolas paced behind open balcony doors a floor above Anarwen, but he was too lost in his own worries to sense her approach. A small pile of crumpled papers lay in a semicircle around the room's only table. In the hours following that evening's meal, he had started a letter to King Thranduil many times, only to tear it up in frustration. _How will I explain this to __Ada__?_

Legolas, Anarwen, and two other elves had been sent by his father to the council. "Report what we know about the creature's escape and learn what Elrond has foreseen," had been Thranduil's terse instructions. Very little leeway in there to authorize guiding a Hobbit to the fires of Mt. Doom.

It did not help that he usually relied on Anarwen to write his messages, even those to Thranduil. She was the one who could find the right words to smooth over Legolas's more dangerous adventures.

The vexation his son's escapades brought to the king was a continual source of tension between the two fiercely courageous warriors. Thranduil had seen too many of his kin slaughtered through foolish acts on the battlefield. He never doubted his son's abilities, but Legolas frequently chose the bold route rather than the prudent one.

Now Legolas found himself at a loss to explain his hasty decision to join the fellowship. Many justifications could be found in the floor's growing pile of wasted paper. But he doubted that any of them really showed the need to send Thranduil's only heir into Mordor. Another elf could easily take his place. That would be his father's first, and only, judgment.

He only hoped that the king would not berate Anarwen for this decision. 

And that was the other source of Legolas's worries. Even if he could finish writing a message to his father, he still had to convince his guard to take it home to Mirkwood.

If there was one thing that he could depend on, it was that his half-elven guard would not easily leave his side. Even if he ordered her to.

_Anarwen._ Legolas remembered the stony look on her face as the newly-formed fellowship left the council. Elrond had finished explaining to Pippin exactly where this "thing" was headed. Legolas turned to speak with the rest of the Mirkwood elves, and all his amusement at the Hobbits fled as he looked into her dark eyes.

Legolas felt the first touches of misgivings then. They only grew worse during the meeting in Elrond's Hall. Despite how little Anarwen spoke, it was clear from her remarks that she believed she was going with him. No one there reminded her that Elrond had only counted nine companions. They left it to Legolas to resolve matters.

As the moon passed behind pale clouds, Legolas wondered how he would explain to both his father and his guard that he was willing to risk his life for this quest, but not hers.

***

Anarwen knocked softly on the door to Legolas's chambers. It opened silently to reveal the prince's fair face lit up by oil lamps suspended from the high ceiling. 

"My lord," she said, looking him straight in the eye.

Legolas smiled. He knew when she was ready for battle. As both half-elven and female, Anarwen had spent much of her 73 years wearing this exact look of determination. Mirkwood's elves viewed both these qualities as equally suspicious in someone who had enlisted in their realm's defense. After he had trained her to be his personal guard, putting her at his side but outside of the regular forces, she had eased into less rigid expressions, particularly when they were alone. _So tonight I am to be your foe, he thought._

"Anarwen. I have missed your talent with a quill," he said, gesturing to the remains on the floor.

"I am afraid I cannot scribe what I do not understand. Your father must receive your own words this time." _You have assigned us both to suicide, she thought grimly. _Do not jest with me.__

Legolas weighed his words before responding. Sharing his own apprehensions was not an option. She would only use them to persuade him to return home. And the truth, that he had joined this fellowship with more emotion than consideration, could have no part in this discussion.

"There is nothing to understand beyond what Lord Elrond has already explained. The destruction of the ring will bring about Sauron's end. The mission must succeed or Mirkwood will fall to the Shadow just as quickly as Gondor. I do this for our kingdom."

"You choose a journey Dormallen or Antion could easily take in your place," she said, referring to the other members of the Mirkwood delegation. "The elves can be represented by many other than us."

"We are not going. I am."

Silence replaced their steadily rising voices. Anarwen stared at him in shock.

Legolas moved closer to her. He was tempted to take hold of her hands and soften the blow of his words. But he had never taken such a step with his guard, and the darkening expression on her face held him back from attempting it now.

"Where you go, so do I." To Anarwen, it was that simple. 

"I pledged only myself. I cannot ask you to do this."

"You do not ask. I have sworn an oath to you. It is not altered by your whims." Anarwen instantly regretted her words. Insulting her lord was only going to make matters worse. She looked away so she did not have to see his expression.

She was so often silent company that Legolas had forgotten what a sharp tongue Anarwen could have. Pride getting the better of him, he said the first thing that came to mind. "Then it will be decided by my orders. In the morning I will have a message ready for you to deliver to my father."

"You send me to tell your father that you plan to accompany a band of halflings to Mordor? With a dwarf?"

Sarcasm came easily to Anarwen but usually it remained locked in her thoughts. Desperation that he might actually leave her behind was choking in her throat and watering her eyes. _I will not cry. I am not some simpering elleth_. She turned back to face him. "I am your guard, not your courier."

"Then you will be neither."

Both of them had gone too far and did not know how to turn back.

Anarwen could think of nothing to say. Words floated away from her. She let her gaze fall to the floor and felt the full weight of her failure.

Legolas took in Anarwen's appearance. Her long, dark brown hair. Eyes that matched its hue but were now hidden from him. A body tall enough to be near his height but not as lithe as her Eldar lord.

For twenty years she had been a constant in his life, an extension of him trained perfectly for her duty. He could not imagine a journey without her at his side, but neither would he assign her a quest such as this one. He would not gamble with her fate simply because he was willing to do so with his own. A brief image of him holding her broken body on the ruins of a battlefield flitted through his mind.

Anarwen tried to order her thoughts but could not. She had not felt so alone in many years.

"Then I will not keep you…" They were the only words she could force out. She walked stiffly to the door. There was silence behind her.

***

Anarwen closed the door and slowly made her way down the corridor. Just as tears threatened to escape her control, an idea came to her.

_I am no longer his guard. If I am to determine my own journey, then it shall be with Frodo._

The fellowship's other elf would just have to accept it.


	2. The Departure of the Fellowship

[Written with respect for, but no ownership in, the works of J.R.R. Tolkein, Peter Jackson, Philippa Boyens, and Fran Walsh. I own only the elf girl. Maybe a few adjectives, tops.]

25 December, 3018. Third Age.

Anarwen surveyed the landscape before her. From her perch on the stone seat, she could view the whole of Imladris below, the pillared east-facing porch of Elrond's house, the Bruinen cutting through the steep valley, the stone bridge and main path that would lead the Fellowship on their way.

The mist that had hung close to the river at dawn had burned away with the Sun's rising. Anarwen squinted to mark the passage of Anor, for which she was named, through the sky. _Mid-afternoon_. She had been here all day. 

For the last 15 minutes she had been listening to the loud noises of a dwarf making its way up the terrace path. _They can hear him in Goblin-town by now_, she thought. Anarwen wanted to be left alone. A dwarf was a particularly unwelcome prospect, but she could not return just yet. The Company was to leave at dusk. She would not go back to Elrond's house until just before that time.

Gimli let out a gasping breath as he reached the top of the path. Bent over, sweating, and grumbling in his own tongue, he did not notice the elf sitting on the bench across from him.

"Good afternoon, Master Dwarf."

Gimli jerked up at Anarwen's greeting. It was a moment before he recognized her from the council. His eyes narrowed, and he remembered a few of her harsh words from the previous day's debate. "Hrmph…"

Anarwen lowered her legs from where they had been pulled up against her chest. Self-conscious and awkward at the thought of speaking to this dwarf, she shifted her gaze away. She caught sight of Legolas far down the slope near the stable. He was speaking to Dormallen and Antion. _Maybe he is looking for me. _Then she remembered that there was no reason for him to seek her. She was no longer bound to his service.

Gimli followed the elf's stare down the hill to the party of Mirkwood elves. The princeling was handing over a packet to one of the others. Turning back to Anarwen, Gimli sized up her distracted expression. _Lovers' spat_, he thought, with a small measure of satisfaction.

Anarwen would have been incredulous at Gimli's assumption had she suspected it. In truth, many Mirkwood elves shared the dwarf's assessment of her. They loved and respected their prince but looked unkindly on the half-elf always at his side. Anarwen was not completely oblivious to this gossip, but ignored it as the idle chatter of the court's twittering ladies. She did not realize that many others considered her the prince's concubine.

Of the few rumors that reached her ears, Anarwen thought them obviously absurd. She could easily picture a dozen elves that had captured Legolas's interest at one point or another, and if anything, she was the polar opposite to each. Neither fair-haired, nor blue-eyed, nor slight of build, Anarwen had long ago decided that Legolas would never think of her in anything but the most platonic light. They shared a purely professional respect for each other. He gave her no reason to read something else behind his motives. After difficult years of trying to find her place, it had been a relief to have such a one handed to her so freely. It was an arrangement that had worked well for both of them.

Down the hill, Legolas followed the others into the stable. Anarwen realized she had been silent for several minutes and so had Gimli. He had said nothing in response to her greeting. She returned her gaze to the dwarf and found him watching her. She matched his direct look and decided to make the first brave move of the day.

"I may have been somewhat abrupt yesterday. You have my apology for my words, Master Dwarf." Anarwen did not flinch during this brief speech, but wished heartily that this moment could be over quickly.

Gimli had no idea what to make of this elleth. Had another warrior mouthed her insults of yesterday, the dwarf would have challenged him with the first sharp object in reach. But he had been dumbfounded to realize it was a girl leaping to the prince's defense. Honor and anger had gotten all mixed up inside him and left him sputtering until Frodo had silenced everyone.

At this morning's meal, Aragorn had explained to Gimli that Anarwen was Legolas's guard, but added that her father had been from Lake-town. On the whole, the Dwarves did not trust men much more than elves, but Gimli regarded Anarwen's mixed parentage as something of an improvement over the others from Mirkwood.

Anarwen's apology was a surprise, but seemed honestly offered. He also had a sentimental regard for women, even if this one did have pointy ears. Chivalry won out over stubbornness. "Hrmph. Well…we were all a bit…testy."

Anarwen smiled softly. Smoothing over the dwarf's wounded pride was much simpler than the next task facing her. But if she planned to make this journey, it was time to put things to right.

Gimli eyed her for another minute, and then trundled over to stand at the other side of the bench. Without much of an introduction, he launched into a long and very amusing story about hunting goblins in the Iron Hills.

The afternoon wore on, and Anarwen was thoroughly charmed by the dwarf's tall tale. Gimli warmed easily to the appreciative audience and found himself ending one story with the beginning of another.

Together they walked back down the terrace path, the dwarf still narrating with wild gestures and the smiling elleth following behind him.

***

Legolas took the stairs down to the courtyard two at a time. Aragorn and Arwen followed him at a distance. From the tone of their hushed conversation, Legolas suspected they did not need him near.

The Hobbits and Gandalf were already waiting, along with a small gathering of elves. Boromir strode toward them from the opposite direction. He had been at the stable biding the rest of Gondor's men farewell. The contingent from Mirkwood had left several hours ago.

Most of them, at least. Neither Dormallen nor Antion had known where Anarwen had gone. Legolas refused to go hunting after her and had sent the archers on their way without her. His letter to Thranduil was now making its way to Mirkwood in Antion's care.

Aragorn reached the stairs alone and walked forward to stand with Boromir. Legolas joined them, but stole a quick look back at Arwen, who was now moving slowing toward the group of elves near Lord Elrond.

Anarwen, keeping to Gimli's slower pace, arrived just as Elrond began to speak.

_Anarwen._ Legolas was momentarily thrown by her strange companionship with the dwarf, but he was relieved at the chance to put matters back in order before he left. After Elrond's farewell, he could make his own to the elleth.

"The Ring Bearer is setting out on a quest of Mt. Doom…"

Legolas stood still, listening to Elrond intently but glancing furtively at Anarwen. He was so used to seeing her clothed and armed as himself that he did not think it odd that she should appear there with a bow and quiver at her back and a long white knife at her belt. However, something did not feel right. He was certain it was mutual embarrassment at their hasty words of the previous night.

Elrond looked straight at Legolas. "…yet no oath nor bond is laid on you to go further than you will."

_What need have I of this warning?_, thought Legolas. Worry began to settle in his stomach.

Elrond continued, "Anarwen of the Woodland realm will accompany you. I cannot look too far ahead in your journey, but I would have you counted one more than the Nine Riders that track you. She has traveled much near the lands of the Shadow and can guide you well."

Anarwen felt all eyes fall on her. She suspected that at least one pair in crystal blue were flashing with rage. She kept her own gaze on Elrond.

Anarwen had gone to him before dawn to propose joining the Company. He waited patiently as she rushed through a number of noble justifications for volunteering before she faltered into awkward silence. She had the distinct impression that he was not really listening to her.

Minutes ticked by before he said, "Only you can pledge yourself to this cause…They may have need of you before this is over. If your heart tells you to do this, go with my blessing."

Now he addressed the Fellowship, "May the blessing of Elves and Men and all Free Folk go with you." The courtyard was deathly quiet as Elrond finished.

_She cannot possibly be doing this!_ In the space of two minutes, the argument he thought he had won, at great cost, had been cast aside. She had gone behind his back. Now his own reasons for allowing her into the journey's planning were thrown back at him as reasons for her going with them.

Fury at her defiance swelled in him, but Elrond's words left no room for debate. She was going. Anything he said now would only humiliate himself in front of everyone. Without a word, he spun away to follow Frodo and Gandalf out the archway.

Anarwen braved a glance at Legolas only in time to see his retreating back. She had wagered all with the hope that her loyalty on this quest could heal their rift and restore her to his service. Now she had the sinking feeling that her actions had ensured this would never happen. The road before them promised only the unknown.

She fingered the knife at her side and waited for the other Hobbits to file out in front of her.

Gimli contemplated Aragorn's resolute gesture of farewell, Legolas's disappearance, Arwen's forlorn look, and its twin expression on Anarwen's face.

Making his own departure, he muttered, "Well…This should be a cheerful outing."


	3. Of Elves and Halfelves, Part 1

[Written with respect for, but no ownership in, the works of J.R.R. Tolkein, Peter Jackson, Philippa Boyens, and Fran Walsh. I own only the elleth (but not that word).]

30 December, 3018. Third Age.

From Rivendell, the Company set out on a course southward, traveling west of the mountains and mostly at night. They headed toward a pass known as the Redhorn Gate. Gandalf described it as a 20-day journey from the Last Homely House.

On the fifth day, they halted their march at dawn. The Hobbits spread out near the edge of a clearing and immediately fell into a noisy sleep. The men and elves divided the watch, with Boromir and Legolas taking the first stretch. Gimli decided to take a quick nap while Anarwen set out in search of fresh water. Gandalf joined Aragorn near the foot of a large tree and, each puffing on their pipes, debated the best route once the Company was beyond the mountains.

In the days since leaving Imladris, Legolas had not found a way to dispel his bitter mood. He kept it well-hidden during the night-time trek through the hills. To lighten the spirits of the Hobbits, he sometimes sang the songs of the Wood-elves. But he held onto a cold anger in his heart and never spoke to Anarwen. It was far easier to simply ignore her presence.

The Company's other elf swiftly adjusted to her lord's silent but obvious wishes. Anarwen took up the rearguard as they traveled. At stops such as this, she stood watch facing whichever direction was opposite from Legolas's view. While the elves set their marches and vigils at increasing distances, only Aragorn, Gimli, and Gandalf took note of the strained state of things.

Gimli thought the situation amazingly childish. In low tones one evening, Aragorn had assured the dwarf that the two elves shared no bond beyond that of noble and guard. Lacking any excuse of passion, Gimli had little idea what there could be to bicker about. In his growing fondness for the elleth, he concluded that the fault clearly lay with the princeling, who settled another step lower in the dwarf's esteem.

Anarwen returned from her scouting to report that a small stream lay directly east of the campsite. She had bathed quickly before walking back to her companions and now sat down on the far edge of the clearing, rebraiding her wet hair.

Legolas watched as she carefully divided and worked small sections of it just above her ears into four thin braids on each side. When the eight tiny plaits were half-complete, she pulled them all behind her head and wove them together into a single intricate braid that fell down her back. The rest of her dark hair remained free, forming gentle waves as it dried in the light breeze.

As the elleth finished this well-practiced task, Legolas was filled with memories of their first meeting.

***

Spring, 2993. Third Age.

"Release!"

Ten archers sent their arrows speeding toward targets at the opposite edge of the field. Ten arrows hit with only minute differences in accuracy, and cheers of approval went up from the crowd. King Thranduil and his son sat at a distance behind the line of young bowmen, adding politely to the applause. The competition, part of a celebration of spring, was nearly over.

Legolas fixed a smile on his face, but let his mind wander as he contemplated these second-year warriors in his realm's defenses. Wood-elves took up the bow early in childhood, so even though these archers were quite young compared to their audience, much time had passed since they began their training. Years of practice later, each was nearly perfect in his stance and release. It was a singularly boring exhibition.

_To hit a mark is one thing. To dispatch a charging Orc is another._ Legolas had just returned from patrolling the Narrows of the forest. It had been over fifty years since Sauron had abandoned Dol Guldur, but the southern areas of Mirkwood were still plagued by his servants. The prince was attending this competition out of obligation, but he also hoped to find at least one young charge to join his guard. The forest had become increasingly perilous. If he planned to continue leading its defenses, he was going to have to expand the number of those assigned to his personal service. From the looks of these elves, he would not find one here.

The targets were removed from the field and the tournament's entrants lined up to begin the final contest. It was to be a sparring match with long knives. Pairs of warriors took their positions, and at the sound of a horn, began to fight. The opponents fought until one held the other at knifepoint and his rival could make no move. Several contests began and ended before Legolas returned his attention to the field and realized that the final spar was about to start.

Two fighters walked forward, taking positions in the middle of the clearing. Legolas recognized one as Antion, a member of the northern patrol. Dark-haired and blue-eyed, the warrior was very popular among the elven-maids of Thranduil's court. Legolas thought him full of the arrogance of youth, but possibly useful once he gained more battle experience.

Legolas turned to look for the first time at Antion's opponent and realized that he was staring at an elleth. The girl was as dark-haired as Antion and matched him in both height and attire, but her hair was held off her face with an elaborate set of braids just above her ears. The closer Legolas looked, the more her figure revealed a more feminine grace. As the match sent her moving to face Legolas directly, he saw that her eyes were a shade of brown dark enough to be mistaken for black.

The presence of an elleth among the combatants was not as shocking as it would have been in a competition among Men. Elven-women generally matched their male counterparts in size and strength. However, most chose to marry near their fiftieth year and rarely bore arms except in dire necessity. Legolas knew of fewer than 20 elven-women who had joined Thranduil's forces during his lifetime.

Twenty minutes into the match neither opponent seemed to have gained an advantage. Their movements shifted them in a tight circle in front of their audience. Suddenly Antion knocked the knife out the elleth's hand. For a brief moment, she took her eyes off her opponent to follow the weapon's path in the air. The boy sensed that victory was in reach and viciously kicked the girl's legs out from under her.

A murmur went up from the audience. They also thought the contest about to end, but Legolas looked at the elleth's face and saw a determination there wholly at odds with imminent defeat. Crawling backwards and eyeing Antion's approach, she managed to put enough distance between herself and him to spring backwards and land on her feet. The boy said something so quietly that only he and the girl could hear it.

She continued to edge backwards from the outstretched knifepoint. Both elves had now moved to one side of the tournament's arena. She had nowhere else to go. Antion's face broke into a small smirk.

Then Legolas saw something truly unexpected. The elleth reached behind her back to pluck an arrow from a quiver left leaning against the arena's barrier wall. As she brought it up toward the boy's face, she kicked the knife out of his hand, sending it straight up in the air. By the time he tried to escape the arrow tip now held an inch from his eye, he felt the knife edge at his throat.

"Do you yield?" the elleth spoke softly.

Antion did not answer. She had outmaneuvered him, leaving him nowhere to go. But he also knew that it was not permitted to bring another weapon into the match. The elleth had cheated. She continued to hold the knife and arrow in position, and he glared back at her, believing that she had been willing to dishonor herself in front of all rather than let him win.

The competition's judge brought the stalemate to an end by declaring the elleth disqualified. Members of Antion's patrol moved onto the field to congratulate their friend. Legolas watched as the girl spun the knife's handle around and handed it to the grinning boy. He thought he might have seen her congratulate Antion as well, but his view was blocked as more of the crowd surged forward. Over their heads, he caught glimpses of the girl walking slowly toward the Elven-king's caverns, the arrow still clutched in her left hand.

That the girl had cheated surprised him a little, but he was more amazed by her final move. Five days earlier, Legolas had used an arrow to skewer an Orc through the eye because the creature had gotten too close too fast and he could not reach his knives in time. The elleth had executed a perfect imitation of the feat that had probably saved his life.

She had also stolen one of his arrows.

***

Legolas walked silently along the twisting passages of the palace until he found a plain door at the end of a corridor. It was open far enough that he could see the girl inside, hunched over a table. With careful, dexterous motions, she was repairing the binding at the end of his arrow. Her full concentration was bent on the task. Holding the feathers straight but set at an angle, she rewound the arrow's gold threading, securing the feathers tightly. She had not sensed anyone's approach.

Legolas waited until she had completed the repair before speaking. "I believe you have something of mine."

Anarwen jumped up in surprise, dropping the arrow onto the table. As Legolas moved out of the doorway and into the room, she stuttered, "I…My lord, I did not realize that it was your quiver on the field...and I, uh…When I returned, I saw that it had the gold threading of your arms but that I had somehow unwound it. I wanted to mend it before I returned it to your guard…I am very sorry, my lord."

Legolas's smile grew at this tumble of words and the blush that accompanied it. "You were not the one that damaged the arrow. An Orc is to thank for that. And look, you have repaired it as well as my master fletcher. What ellon taught you this craft?"

"T'was no elf, my lord. My father taught it to me."

"A man?" 

"Yes, my lord." Anarwen did not elaborate.

_She is of the peredhil?_ The sight of Antion kicking the elleth's legs out from under her came to mind, and Legolas realized there may have been more behind the elf's actions than mere desire to win. The Wood-elves' suspicion of outsiders was well known. Although Legolas did not like to believe such emotions were ever applied to those of his kind, he suspected that the soldiers of Thranduil's forces would be loath to let the half-elven among their ranks.

Legolas had not expected her response but was determined to put a lighthearted tone on their conversation. "Well…then perhaps I should send him all my arrows. The servants of the Enemy have been a nuisance of late."

"That will not be possible, my lord." Anarwen looked away toward the room's corner before adding softly, "He passed out of Eä during the winter."

"I am sorry to hear that it is so." Legolas eyed the girl, considering how to pull the conversation back to less awkward topics. He walked forward and picked the arrow up from the table. Twirling it lightly in his fingers, he fixed her with a small grin and said, "I did not have the chance to compliment you on your strategy today."

Anarwen snapped out of her sad reverie to redden again with embarrassment. "There is little to compliment, my lord. I did not win."

"In battle, the winner is the one who survives the day. Had Antion been an Orc, he would be dead. That is a victory worthy of praise."

"You are very kind, my lord. But I do not deserve such praise. I let my anger get the better of me, and I cheated."

"No, you deliberately led him to the edge of the tournament field, and then you taught him a lesson. It was quite cunning. You will have to take me at my word when I tell you that the servants of the Enemy do not expect an elf to be sly. The Orcs know only brute force."

Anarwen said nothing to this assessment, but looked more filled with shame at every passing second. Legolas felt sure that she had not believed anyone had truly understood her actions. He did not mean to humiliate her, but if she was to eventually join his guard, she would have to learn early not to underestimate either friend or foe.

"We will speak more of it tomorrow. At dawn, come to the practice range on the southern side of the river. Let us see how you fare against a worthier opponent."

***

Author's note:  For background info (meaning none of this really matters, but it helps me write)…

I have set Anarwen's birth in 2945, T.A. This is 4 years after the Battle of the Five Armies. For the purposes of this story, I have set Legolas's birth in 2758, T.A. This is much, much younger than Jackson's choice for the movies and several hundred years younger than the guesstimates of many on-line commentators. Tolkein never named his age, so I figure it's my call here (it's fiction, I'm a fan, whatever). So all that means is that when LoTR starts, Anarwen is 73 and Legolas is 260.

Regarding the part about Elven-women marrying at fifty, etc., this is described in "Of the Laws and Customs Among the Eldar…," which is in vol. X of Christopher Tolkein's _History of Middle-Earth_ series.

Weird words in English, simple words in Sindarin:

Fletcher: A maker of arrows

Elleth: Elf-woman

Ellon: Elf-man

Peredhil: Half-elven

Eä: Creation


	4. Of Elves and Halfelves, Part 2

[Written with respect for, but no ownership in, the works of J.R.R. Tolkein, Peter Jackson, Philippa Boyens, and Fran Walsh. I own mostly the silly parts.]

30 December, 3018. Third Age.

From the opposite side of the camp, Anarwen remembered the last time Legolas had fallen into such silence. It had also been the last time she had directly disobeyed his commands, although that came a little later.

It began with the death of Duilin, the captain of Legolas's guard. Duilin had been leading a simple scouting mission to the western edge of Mirkwood. The journey had been planned as a two-day ride from Thranduil's palace, so they had not brought many troops for support. Legolas had been meant to join them, but at the last moment he was called to some minor court function. Anarwen had also remained behind.

From what could be deduced later, a band of goblins attacked the party. Duilin's body was found a week later after the group's failure to return launched a massive search effort. Legolas was not among those that discovered and buried the body. He learned of his captain's death after arriving home with his patrol.

For many days afterward, Legolas mourned Duilin's passing like all who had known the captain. After a month, however, the prince's mood turned inward. His light-hearted manner did not return. Instead, he threw himself into the planning and execution of an elaborate set of raids throughout the forest. Leading nearly every assault himself, Legolas drove his elven forces to the edge of their skill and endurance. He seemed bent on destroying every evil creature in Mirkwood, with his own hands wherever possible. When these efforts proved not enough to purge his sorrow, Legolas began to seek foes on his own. He ordered his personal guards to stay behind while he hunted alone throughout the far reaches of the forest.

Fantastic tales began to make their way back to the palace. Legolas's feats of bravery were rapidly turning him into a legend among his people, but Thranduil was far less enraptured. His son's deeds of daring seemed more like foolhardy acts bordering on self-destruction. Once he learned that Legolas was waiving his own protection, Thranduil knew he could no longer leave the prince to his own devices.

During this time Anarwen longed to find some way to comfort Legolas, but her rank prevented her from making any such attempt. It was not her place to discuss such personal matters with her lord. Had they been able to transcend their stations, however, Anarwen could have taught Legolas more about death than many of Mirkwood's elves.

For although Legolas knew what would happen to all the Eldar upon the death of their bodies, little did he truly appreciate how different this fate was from that of Men. Should an elf be slain or die of grief in Middle-earth, their spirit would still journey to the West, to the paradise of Valinor. The elves were irrevocably tied to Arda in body and in spirit until its unmaking.

However, Men had no afterlife. It was the strange gift of Eru that they should have shorter, more savage lives than those of the First Born. Upon the death of their bodies, Men were gone forever. 

The passing of Anarwen's father had left her with a boundless grief made sharper with the knowledge of its finality. Neither in body nor in spirit would she ever meet him again. For this reason, she had chosen the life of the elves, for as one of the half-elven, she was granted the right of this decision. Wishing never again to be parted from those she loved, Anarwen chose the fate of the Eldar.

Legolas had never befriended one of the race of Men, and therefore he did not truly grasp the enormity of this difference. He had also never had to select his own fate, as the peredhil are forced to do. While Anarwen could do nothing to alter the reality of Duilin's death, she could offer her lord perspective and a hope for the future, no matter how distant it seemed.

And maybe it was for that reason that Thranduil sent Anarwen along as Legolas's only guard when he ordered his son away. Nominally, their charge was to scout the eastern edge of Mirkwood and the lands between it and the River Carnen. In truth, it was more like banishment to the least dangerous part of the forest, an area almost totally abandoned by Sauron's minions. The lands just beyond were rumored to be deserted.

Legolas seemed to understand that this farce was the act of a protective father, and he undertook it with silent resignation. Anarwen hoped this acceptance could eventually make its way to his heart, that this season away from battle would heal his soul, but she feared that his impassive face masked something else.

During the early months of their travels, he seemed barely aware of her presence. They ate together, but his faraway look silenced any thoughts she might have had of conversation. As was being painfully repeated with the Fellowship, Legolas deliberately scouted far out ahead of Anarwen, who was terribly confused by his actions. She feared that she had angered him in some way. Because it seemed the only way to be near enough to give the pretense of acting as his guard, she let him set the gap between them. He allowed her to keep him in sight as long as she trailed at a distance.

Finally one evening, Legolas broke his silence. "Stay here. I will return in a while."

The first words he had spoken to her in three months filled Anarwen with dismay. To disobey his command would mean the breaking of her oath to him, but to simply watch while he ventured off alone was an equal breach of her duty. She struggled to put into words some protest that did not resemble insubordination, but he was gone before she could get to her feet.

Two days later, he had not returned and Anarwen was plagued with both dread and anger. His grief had put her in an impossible position and possibly his own life at risk. With nothing to do but stare off in the direction of his disappearance and await his return, Anarwen had reached the end of her sympathy for Legolas. Cursing his name and heritage in the tongue of her father, she set out to find her lord.

A league from their campsite, she realized how simple this task would prove. All she had to do was follow the succession of dead goblins and other fell beasts that were clearly marking his trail.

Within five days she reached the shores of the Carnen. The telltale "thwack" of arrows hitting their mark caused her to take off running. She arrived at a clearing to find Legolas surrounded on three sides by Easterlings. The ground was littered with evidence that members of a larger group had met their deaths with his precisely placed shots, but the remaining men were closing in. There were too many to keep them within the target window of his bow. As Legolas switched to his knives, Anarwen leapt into the fray with her own blade drawn.

Too late, the Easterlings realized that their enemies now numbered two elves, not one, and that their own odds of survival were plummeting. The more quick witted among the group simply ran away. Legolas and Anarwen fought until she had dispatched her last opponent and he slit the throat of his.

He turned slowly to the elleth. Tired, bloodied, and with eyes unnaturally bright, Legolas did not greet her with gratitude for her sudden appearance. He opened his mouth to say something fierce, but he shut it just as fast and stared at her in shock. Anarwen followed his stare to her left shoulder and saw a small dart jutting out from her jerkin. For a full second, both elves stared at the tiny weapon, and then Anarwen's legs failed her. Halfway to the ground, she heard rather than saw Legolas send his knife spinning back along the dart's trajectory to catch an Easterling in the stomach.

The roaring in her ears made it difficult to decide who had cried out, herself, her lord, or the man dying behind them. Colors exploded behind her eyes and she felt throbs of pain spread from her shoulder down her arm and across her chest. When Legolas finally reached her, the agony of his turning her over sent a wall of black down to obliterate her sight. 

Thoughts and images swirled and faded in Anarwen's mind until she became aware of a strange sensation. She blinked hard to orient herself and discovered she being held up off the ground. The more curious thing was the screen of golden light near her head. It seemed to glow and shimmer, brighter than sunlight.

The pain returned to stab at her. It also jerked her fully awake. Slowly she realized she was wrapped in Legolas's arms. He was bent over her prone body, trying to draw the poison from the wound before it reached her heart. How very odd it seemed to Anarwen that her lord would think her ruin as simple as a snake bite.

His hands tightened their grip on her, and as if floating above, Anarwen pictured what she and Legolas must look like. The irony of this awful moment struck her as absurdly amusing. Having been treated as one of the whores of Men, she would die here in this grotesque parody of a lover's embrace. But there would be no ellon to mourn her. She would enter the Halls of Mandos having never known even the simplest of joys from a beloved.

Her laugh came out as a strangled, gasping noise. She shuddered violently. With the terrible pain returning tenfold, she put despair aside. _Mustn't…You mustn't…You must not risk yourself._ The words echoed in her mind, but she could not make the correct sounds. Feebly, she pushed at his shoulder. As he turned to her, Legolas's bright blue eyes swam into view. She tried to force her vision to clear but everything looked watery. Broken and fading, she moved her fumbling hand from his shoulder and touched her fingertips to his mouth. "Do not do this for me," she choked out.

The golden light returned and with it came warmth. His face was very near now. She felt her fingertips move, tracing words he spoke, but they sounded too far away to be understood. He pressed his cheek to her own. Here in his arms, all her thoughts slide away except one. "You are…so very…I…," she whispered but never finished. All had gone black.

She awoke three days later. Exhausted and drained from her body's fight with the poison, she would have to wait another week before travel became possible. Her first sight of Legolas was as the pale radiance in a dark, hazy background. For the days that followed, he kept up an unceasing litany of teasing comments, but he could spur her to little more than a smirk, followed directly by a coughing fit. She could not tell if it was real or feigned for her benefit, but his mirthful manner seemed restored. He took care of her until the day he set her in front of him on his horse so they could ride together back to the Elven-king's caverns.

In all the years since, they never spoke of that summer, the grief that began it or the near tragedy that ended it.

***

"Anarwen, I do not believe that rock poses much of a threat," Gandalf called to her. He offered her a kindly smile and added, "Join us and have something to eat."

The elleth realized that she must have been staring fixedly for some time. She stood up and made her way back to the tree where most of the Company was gathered.

"My lady," Gimli said as he handed her a plate.

"Master Dwarf, you need not refer to me that way. I have no title to merit it."

"My lady, it is my experience that those born with titles rarely do much to merit them," he replied rather loudly.

Anarwen could not help the small grin that came to her face. "Perhaps such an opinion is for want of close acquaintance," she said in softer tones than Gimli's. "But I would agree that valor can be found in the most unlikely places." She glanced up briefly to favor Frodo with a true smile.

_Obnoxious little troll! Had anyone favored Legolas with a look, they would have noticed his posture stiffen at the dwarf's remark. He remained with his back to the Company and his eyes fixed on the blue sky._

The dwarf's courtliness to Anarwen was a continual source of irritation. Legolas did not begrudge her the respect of the others, but Gimli's partiality to her company seemed somehow…wrong. He could not put it into words. Nonetheless, Legolas felt a pinprick of ire whenever the dwarf's storytelling, so obviously contrived for the elleth's attention, reached his ears. 

"All here are enemies of the one Enemy, Legolas." Aragorn joined the elf at his watch. "You must put these emotions aside or you will lose her forever."

The Elven-prince did not turn to the ranger. He felt as if he had been suddenly discovered in a lie. He was also confused as to exactly which feelings Aragorn was asking him to disregard.

"I have already released her from her oath."

"No, my friend. She is more closely bound to you than ever…And you to her."

Silent minutes passed. Finally Aragorn turned back toward the Company, who were now enjoying the antics of Merry and Pippin.

_…bound to her._ For another of the many times since, Legolas wondered what Anarwen had tried to tell him that day in the eastern wilderness.


	5. The Ring Goes South

[Written with respect for, but no ownership in, the works of J.R.R. Tolkein, Peter Jackson, Philippa Boyens, and Fran Walsh. Mar 1, 04: I am reposting this to make a small correction. Hopefully I will have a new chapter up by the end of the week. Your kind reviews have kept me going. I'd appreciate any suggestions on where to take the story or what I can do to improve it. Thanks again. Joelle]

8 January, 3019. Third Age.

A fortnight passed and the Company found themselves on the slopes of Hollin Ridge. They had been traveling mostly at night, but on this day had journeyed with the Sun. They stopped at noon, everyone having grown tired at Pippin's bellyaching. Sam started a fire and began preparing a meal while the others spread out across the landscape's many boulders.

As she had done many times since the journey began, Anarwen lingered near the edge of the camp, waiting to see where Legolas would rest. His distance, physical and otherwise, had taken a toll on her. There seemed little way for her to fix the situation and little hope of him doing so on his own. In her more cynical moments, Anarwen thought it might help matters if a lost Easterling magically appeared and attempted to kill her. But she knew the answers no longer lay in their past.

Turning to the mountains, she caught sight of the peaks of Caradhras and Celebdil. The Company's road lay between them through the Redhorn Pass. Snowcapped and brilliant in the sunlight, they separated a West still clinging to peace and an East teetering on war. They marked a different boundary for the elleth. Once the Company had crossed the pass, it would be time for her to decide. Remain with the Ringbearer and all that might mean, or return to Mirkwood.

Was this second choice still worth considering? _Taur e-Ndaedelos. _Forest of great fear. There would be no one there to greet her homecoming. No duty to resume or obligation to await anyone's return. She briefly considered trying to rejoin the Elven-king's forces, but abandoned the idea quickly. How does a former guard to the heir ask to be put back on patrol? No, if she took the road to Mirkwood, it would only be to retrieve her possessions. _And what then?_ Anarwen had never felt so alone.

She glanced over to where Legolas was talking with Aragorn. He looked up and met her gaze for a moment before turning away. _Perhaps an Easterling should appear and try to kill him_, she thought in irritation. There he stood, beautiful and fair as anything in Eä, loved by his people and the sole object of her loyalty for 20 years. It had been only a fleeting interval in the lives of Elves, but the weight of its loss was crushing. _And for what? I have never betrayed him, and yet he cannot bear the sight of me._ Anarwen continued to stare at Legolas and her expression began to harden. Whatever her path beyond the mountains, this would end now.

He stood only yards away from her, but to Legolas it seemed like a yawning abyss lay between them. He had handled this badly. The certainty of it was clearer with every passing day. He should have spoken to her long before now, but the words and the will to say them would not come. And remaining silent had only deepened his feelings of guilt. She had done nothing wrong, and whatever need he had to protect her, to spare her this journey, should never have led to this. He was a fool.

The weight of Anarwen's stare caused Legolas to meet her eyes again. _What is she thinking?_ The expression on her face was grim. _I have seen her greet spiders with less malice._ She began to walk towards him, and Legolas knew that whatever tongue-lashing he was about to receive was well-deserved.

But Fate and Hobbits had other ideas. At the prospect of food in the near future, Pippin's sunny disposition had returned. With Merry at his heels, the youngest member of the Fellowship appeared in front of the girl and brought her to a halt. "Come, Anarwen, why don't you sing us a melody? Then Merry and I shall honor you with the songs of the Shire."

She gave him a faint smile. "I am afraid I have only my father's voice, not the fair tone of the Elves."

Pippin squinted at the girl's gently tipped ears in confusion. Before he could utter any other sentence that began with How, What, or Why, Anarwen added, "I am more skilled with a blade than a ballad. Would you like a lesson?" In their travels so far, she had become increasingly worried at the Hobbits' obvious inability to protect themselves. _Ill-equipped to traverse the Shire, let alone Middle-Earth_, she had thought more than once.

Pippin jumped up, "Yes! See, I have brought a blade of my own." He produced a small knife from his belt.

Anarwen turned the short, dull instrument over in her fingertips and considered her reply. "This weapon has already seen much use." _In your kitchen._ "Perhaps Boromir can lend you something more fitting to spar with, so I won't be in danger."

Pippin ran off in search of the lord from Gondor, certain that the girl had praised his abilities and experience.

_She has a way with small men_, Legolas thought wryly.

With one Hobbit dispensed with, Anarwen turned to Merry, who surprised both elves with the next question. "Anarwen, are there many female soldiers in Mirkwood?"

It should have been simple enough to answer, and it would have been under most circumstances. But Anarwen knew that Merry and the other Hobbits did not know much about her or Legolas. Of her own situation, her duties, or what they had been, it seemed too awkward to discuss any of it as if nothing had changed. As for Legolas, it was difficult to talk about Mirkwood and its soldiers without mentioning him, and Anarwen knew that the Hobbits did not understand him to be Thranduil's heir. They had been calling him by his first name since the journey began. She suspected he preferred this anonymity, even if it only extended to part of the Company. Like Aragorn, Gandalf, and Gimli, she had not revealed to the Hobbits that it was a prince who protected their safety. 

The truth was that as of her last conversation with Legolas, there were no Elven-women in Thranduil's forces. While pondering this sad reality and all the history that went with it, a truly evil idea occurred to her. Maybe there was another way to deal with her lord.

"No, Merry. I think the maidens of Mirkwood prefer the duties of home and family more than those of our realm's defense."

Mirkwood's heir silently observed this conversation, much more closely now that Anarwen had resumed walking towards him. She stopped beside Aragorn, who was also eavesdropping. Joining the ranger on his boulder, she gestured for Merry to sit with them.

"But it seems a shame that it is so. I tell you truthfully, the fiercest warriors among all the Elves are the maidens of my King's court." Anarwen leaned forward conspiratorially. She ignored Aragorn's widening grin and the soft sounds of someone shifting their feet behind her. "They are beautiful to behold, but you must not be deceived," she continued to her audience. "They are fearless in the face of their enemy and will do anything to defeat their foe."

"What do they battle?" Merry whispered, as if the Elven-women of Anarwen's tale might hear him.

She leaned closer. "Each other."

At this, Aragorn began to choke with laughter and Anarwen swung around to face him. "You think I jest, Heir of Isildur?" she continued. "You have not seen their slaughter. I have stood on their battlefield and witnessed art of war such as you will never master." She turned back to whisper to Merry, who was now giggling at her dramatics. "Volley…counterassault…carnage. And for what, you may ask, Master Merry?"

By now Gandalf and Gimli had joined the spectators. Legolas cast a glare at the girl and then at the dwarf. He knew where all this was headed and half suspected Gimli to be somehow responsible for it. Clearly the dwarf's flare for a story had rubbed off on his traveling companion.

"They have only one prey, Master Merry. All their hopes lie with one quest."

"For what, Anarwen?"

"Our most gracious, most charming, and most unmarried prince," she replied with a wide smile. Her audience burst out laughing. The sheepish expression on the face of her story's subject was just too hilarious. Merry did not really understand the joke but was happy to enjoy everyone else's amusement.

Anarwen leaned back down toward the Hobbit. "Mark my words, Master Merry. Should you ever encounter a woman in battle, be sure you are her friend and not her foe."

Pippin returned from his errand with a short sword and handed it to the girl. Anarwen held it out before her, considering its craftsmanship and weight. The members of her audience began to drift away now that the tale had ended. As she swung the sword around in her right hand, a quiet voice came from behind her.

"And what say _you_ of Mirkwood's heir?"

Anarwen turned around slowly. Blue eyes held hers, and she searched them for some sign of which road her answer should take. Their crystal depths gave nothing away. "I think…" She paused to look down at the weapon. There was too much to say and yet nothing at all. She met his gaze again, and as she did so, she flicked the sword in the air with the smallest of wrist movements. Her eyes did not leave his as the blade fell back perfectly into her grip. "I think he is not to be underestimated."

Legolas and Anarwen could not have named what passed between them then. They continued to stare at each other until Pippin tugged at her elbow in impatience. She turned back to her would-be student. For a moment, she had forgotten he was there. They walked a short distance away to an area where there was room to maneuver. The prince watched while his former guard and the Hobbit moved through every Elf's first lessons with a sword.

Anarwen was patient with Pippin's poor form and wandering attention, but eventually Boromir intervened. She left Merry and Pippin in his care, hoping that Boromir's idea of improving the Hobbits' manhood did not include drawing blood. Within ten minutes Merry and Pippin decided that the lesson was over.

"For the Shire!" they shouted, dragging Boromir down to their level. Legolas continued watching with amusement as Aragorn became their next conquest, but something in the wind caused his smile to fade. He did not recognize the source of his growing apprehension, but it seemed to be coming from behind him. Back where Anarwen was now scanning the southern sky. He was at her side a moment later. "What do you see?"

"There…" She gestured toward a pinpoint amid the clouds. Slowly it grew into a small dark patch. Anarwen blinked and drew in a sharp breath, but Legolas was first with the warning.

"Crebain from Dunland!"

"Hide!" yelled Aragorn as he grabbed up Frodo.

The black patch swirled toward the North, spreading out as its approach quickened. Legolas leapt down from the boulder and dove under a holly-bush. The rest of the Company sprang to their own hiding places. Anarwen jumped down behind Legolas, but then realized that he, Gimli, and Gandalf had taken the closest cover. Precious seconds passed as she quickly scanned the area for shelter.

A hand snaked out to her ankle and yanked her to the ground. Before she had time to react, Legolas wrapped his arm around her waist and hauled her back under the holly and against his chest.

"Lie flat and still," he whispered in her ear. The crows wheeled overhead, croaking out a terrifying noise. As their shadow tracked behind them, Legolas peered over Anarwen's shoulder, trying to decide if the Company had been seen.

Determining that they were probably safe now, Legolas let his eyes fall to the elleth in his arms and saw for the first time how close they were. His nose was the barest distance away from her ear and he was still gripping her tightly. In the tense moments after he had dragged her to his hiding place, her hand had fallen to his at her waist, and like him, she had not let go yet.

Legolas was dimly aware that he should move, but the intimacy of their position paralyzed him. He stared down at her soft features and stilled his breathing. 

Anarwen continued to peer up at the sky, focused only on the threat from above and not yet certain that all was safe. Then she felt Legolas begin to slide his hand slowly out from under hers. Suddenly, the full awareness of what she was doing and who she was laying against hit her. She flushed hotly with embarrassment.

Legolas had freed his hand from her grasp but did not move away. He shifted up on his elbow and continued gazing at her. Anarwen was about to shy away from him when she felt his fingertips stray to her face.

In his haste to protect her, Legolas had pulled her to him with little grace. A holly branch had raked across her forehead, and a small drop of blood was now welling on her pale skin. He carefully brushed it away.

Very slowly, Anarwen turned over to look at him, and as she did, he shifted a little so that she came to rest on her back. 

Legolas had not stopped staring at her, but now he was looking directly into her dark eyes. Long lashes swept down as he caressed her skin. He should not be doing this, but he no longer knew which rules governed the two of them. With all that had happened and all that this quest meant, it seemed that they now stood outside of all he had known or thought to be true.

More than anything, he did not want this fragile moment to end. When her eyes slowly opened, he saw a storm of emotions in them. And the stirrings of desire to match his own. 

Both held their breath. He was about to touch her softly parted lips when he caught the sounds of the others coming out of hiding. Clamping down on the sensations running through him, he tried to find an answer for the question in her eyes.

"I…You are hurt." Even to his own ears, this excuse sounded ludicrous. In the years since her run in with the Easterling's poison, Anarwen had broken several ribs, survived at least two nasty knife wounds, and nearly lost a finger to an Orc that got too close. The tiny scratch now marring her forehead hardly qualified as an injury.

She flushed again with complete humiliation. She had been confused by his touch, but now she was mortified at her body's reactions. "I am sure it is nothing," she said and began backing up.

As Legolas watched Anarwen scramble away, she leaned her hand directly onto a fallen branch, opening small cuts in her palm. "Ai!" she gasped out in surprise and cursed in her father's tongue. Legolas stifled a grin. Freeing himself from the holly bush, he offered her his hand. Anarwen took it to rise but avoided his eyes, certain that she could not look more ridiculous.

"Spies of Saruman," Gandalf remarked with disgust as he followed the crows' direction of flight.

Aragorn observed the elves drift away from each other. The girl still wore a faint blush, and the boy cast a look of regret at her retreating back. 

When the ranger had told Gimli that there was nothing between Anarwen and Legolas, he knew it to be only part of the truth. He had told the dwarf what he knew to be their understanding of each other. Aragorn, however, had seen something else long ago. Somewhere between the circumspect picture they presented and the nasty gossip that followed them, a different truth lay waiting for discovery: that Mirkwood's prince had met his match the day he first saw this peredhil girl bring another warrior to defeat.


	6. Interlude: Nighttime Dreams and Dances

Written with respect for, but no ownership in, the works of J.R.R. Tolkein, Peter Jackson, Philippa Boyens, and Fran Walsh.

The author returns from New Zealand with happy memories, countless pictures (despite the rain), and too many ideas about what to do with this story. A brief interlude, just to get the ball rolling again.

8 January, 3019. Third Age.

In the dark of night, Frodo fought a lonely battle with the demons of his sleep. The crows sent by Saruman had reminded the Hobbit that evil creatures ceaselessly stalked him and the awful thing he carried—something he had been able to forget during the relatively uneventful days of the journey so far. But tonight the crebain haunted his dreams, their screeching merged with the cries of the Nazgûl on Weathertop. He jerked awake, heart pounding and shoulder throbbing in pain. There would be no more fitful sleep this night.

He tried to calm himself by searching out those on watch. He caught sight of Aragorn first. Hunched up against an outcropping, the ranger was enjoying his pipe and surveying the southern sky. It was a familiar sight to Frodo, who often found himself awake while the others slept soundly. In the darkness, he felt he could always count on the glow of Aragorn's pipe and its reflection off the Evenstar pendant.

Frodo stared at the Elven jewel but his thoughts strayed back to the burden around his own neck. _Ringbearer._ The grandness of the title shamed him. Half the size of the others, barely capable of wielding a weapon, completely ignorant of the lands they traveled through and the dangers that awaited. The fears of his dreams returned, along with the nagging suspicion that this Ringbearer business was truly the twisted work of the Ring itself.

He may have had the best of intentions, but now it occurred to Frodo that his pledge had caused the Ring to end up in the hands of the council's weakest member. It could not have chosen a better tool to ensure its eventual return to Sauron. Maybe it had done exactly that.

Frodo turned his dejected gaze toward the opposite end of the camp. There the form of an Elf melted into another rocky ledge. A shift in position brought blonde hair into bright contrast with the shadows. The Hobbit recognized Legolas, who was concentrating on the surrounding terrain until something drew his attention. Frodo followed the Elf's stare to the ground several yards away and found an odd sight. 

Far away from the other sleeping forms, a dark shape rolled to its side to reveal Anarwen's pale profile. Her long brunette hair and forest-colored clothes rendered her practically invisible against the nighttime landscape. If she had not moved, Frodo doubted he would have seen her at all. Now that he was looking at the girl, he could not help feeling that something was out of place.

_She is sleeping?_ Frodo thought back on the days since the Company had left Rivendell, and he could not remember seeing either Anarwen or Legolas join the others in slumber. He knew Elves rarely felt the effects of fatigue. Still, they could not go indefinitely without resting, so this sight was rare but still inevitable. It did not explain Frodo's unsettled feelings. He glanced back at Legolas and found the elf also staring at the girl with concern.

Frodo's gaze was drawn back down to Anarwen as she shifted again. Against the pitch black night, her pale skin made her troubled expression plainly visible even at a distance. _Do Elves have nightmares too? _wondered Frodo. The girl's mouth moved a little and she might have mumbled something softly, but he could not hear her. She turned her head closer to the ground and her brow furrowed. Then the Hobbit realized what was wrong. _Her eyes are closed!_

It was a jarring sight. An Elf plagued by the same shut-eyed but restless dreaming that mocked him every night. Sympathy welled inside him, along with the vague sense that her discomfort was somehow his fault. In the midst of these thoughts, Frodo felt himself being watched. He shifted his eyes away from Anarwen and found Legolas staring at him with an unreadable expression. Frodo quickly turned away, pretending he had only awoken for a moment.

Legolas felt a pang of sadness at the Hobbit's guilty expression. At some future point, he should probably take the boy aside and explain that the Ring haunted them all to some degree. Even he felt the cursed thing's pull. In waking hours he was able to lock its temptations away into a corner of his mind, but there was nothing the Hobbit or anyone else could do to spare themselves its power during sleep. In dreams, it made all fear themselves abandoned and without hope. 

Anarwen made another noise that only an elf could hear. Legolas watched her stir fitfully. That her eyes were shut alarmed him as much as it did Frodo. Elves experienced their state of reverie with their eyes open. Anarwen's half-Elven heritage had given her a few of the more colorful mannerisms of Men, however Legolas doubted that their way of sleeping was one of them. In their many years of patrolling Mirkwood together, Anarwen had rarely opted to rest while others stood guard, and of those few times he had seen her sleep, Legolas could remember none in which she had done so with her eyes closed. 

The elf caste a quick look around the camp. Despite the lack of moonlight or a fire, he could easily pick out eight mostly silent shapes curled up in bedrolls. Frodo seemed to have fallen back into his own dark dreams and remained turned away from the elf's view. Another small bundle wheezed in rhythmic but noisy breathing. Only Aragorn sat fully awake. The ranger acknowledged Legolas with a nod before poking the snoring dwarf in the side. 

Legolas smiled faintly and returned to watching the elleth. While contemplating her face, he reached out with his senses and checked for any approaching danger. _Nothing. _Then with little awareness of what he was doing, he moved soundlessly to her side and crouched down next to her.

Anarwen lay on her back with neither bedroll nor blanket to shield her from the elements. Her one concession to comfort was a makeshift pillow formed by her suede jerkin. With this outer garment removed, Legolas recognized the customary shirt of his guards, a dusky shade of brown designed to blend into Mirkwood's dark canopy of branches. It fell long to her thighs where soft gray-green hose and tall suede boots wrapped her legs.

Despite her minimal covering, Anarwen should not have been uncomfortable. Elves, even half-Elves like she, did not suffer the extremes of heat or cold, and decades spent guarding the forest realm ensured that she would be at home in any campsite. Yet, her expression betrayed some agitation. Restlessly, she rolled toward Legolas's feet and her right hand moved to clutch at something from her dreams. 

He looked down on her form and his thoughts were jumbled. He was concerned for her, yet confused as to what he should do. A brief memory of that morning came back to him, his hand caressing her cheek as they lay hidden together. He let his mind follow through what might happen should he repeat those actions now. The picture of Anarwen awakening and thrusting her blade to his throat in a single movement was amusing but sufficiently realistic to leave him searching for another answer.

The day, with its threats from outside and awkward moments from within the Company, left Legolas uncertain of himself. His gaze drifted back to Anarwen's closed eyes and he wondered, _What shall become of you and I?_ He was not naïve enough to think that a moment spent in each other's arms had made all well between them. In Rivendell he had released her from her duties and the only way to restore them was for her to offer her oath to him once again. He could not ask it of her, it had to be her choice. Yet, if she did so right now, would his acceptance be the right course to take? Would it be so simple a matter to return to that life? That past was only days ago, but it felt as far away as the time he first saw her.

Without thinking, he watched as his fingertips reached tentatively for hers. The picture blended with another from a memory barely a month old. An elleth's hand raised in dance to meet his, its back sliding along his open palm until her long fingers separated and entwined with his. It was a movement designed to mimic the bodies of lovers. Suddenly, the twisting in his gut jolted him back to the present. He snatched back his hand and quickly scanned the camp.

As soundless as he had joined her, Legolas crept away from Anarwen until he could sit with his back to the rocky hillside. Only when he reached this spot did he realize he had been holding his breath. He stared hard at the horizon, willing himself to put aside this foolishness. Had any observed the elf, they might have noticed that his expression bore more than a passing resemblance to Frodo's guilty demeanor of only minutes ago.

_She is not for me. She is not for me. She is not for me…_


	7. The Pass of Caradhras

[Written with respect for, but no ownership in, the works of J.R.R. Tolkein, Peter Jackson, Philippa Boyens, and Fran Walsh. Time to return a few clichés to the fanfiction collective. Author cackles evilly and exits stage left.]

9 January, 3019. Third Age.

Nightmares retreated with the dawn, and the ragtag group of travelers prepared for another day of marching.

From the trailing end of the Company, Frodo considered the warriors ahead of him and marveled at his luck to be among them. The Fellowship's members were strung out in a sparse line, steadily plodding up the snowy slopes of Caradhras. Piercing sunlight did not warm the air, but the Hobbit felt reassured by its presence and that of these friends. He looked from Man to Dwarf to Elf and knew them to be companions he could rely on to brave through this quest.

Courage had returned to Frodo's heart and he no longer felt so alone. He may have been the first to pledge himself, but the others were equally deserving of their place here. Had he remained silent at the council, one of these warriors would surely have answered Elrond's challenge. The obvious choice would have been Aragorn. It should rightfully be his fate to destroy the Ring that Isildur had saved. Frodo remembered the ranger's valor in the face of the Nazgûl. He had no doubts that this man could face Sauron himself and find victory.

Frodo looked up to see Boromir smile back over his shoulder with encouragement. Despite his rash words at the council, Boromir had proven himself to be a stalwart member of the Fellowship many times over. He had often helped the Hobbits during the arduous days and nights of their travels. Whenever Frodo listened to Boromir speak of Gondor, he knew this man to be a loyal son of its Steward and leader of its people. Like Aragorn, Boromir had faced the servants of the Enemy many times and won. If not the heir of Isildur, then maybe this son of Gondor could have made an equally fine Ringbearer.

In the dark of night, these kinds of thoughts often made the Hobbit feel like an impostor among the truly noble, but today he felt himself blessed to be joined by these brothers in a quest they all shared. Whatever skills he lacked were more than made up for by the others. Together, they could destroy the Ring. He was sure of it.

Frodo settled his eyes on the Elves ahead of him. _And a sister-in-arms too._ Whether it was her clothes, the way she carried herself, or her finesse with weapons, Anarwen matched Legolas in so many respects that to Frodo she often appeared to be simply the other elf's dark-haired twin. He had a difficult time thinking of her as anything other than an Elven-warrior. The idea that she was also an Elven-maid seemed very odd, particularly since Lord Elrond's daughter was almost his only point of comparison. Frodo tried to picture Anarwen in one of the gauzy, floating dresses favored by the ladies of Rivendell and found it nearly impossible. Maybe if she were permitted to have a knife at her waist.

Yet, as he watched the Mirkwood elves farther up the slope, Frodo had an inkling that he might have missed something along the way. Earlier that morning Anarwen and Legolas had drifted to each other's side, and by now they had spent the last two hours in close discussion. Their quiet voices did not carry down the slope, but Frodo could easily understand another language that passed between them. Each gave the other their complete attention, leaned in a little as the other spoke, and looked the other straight in the eye when responding. Frodo also observed what neither noticed. The way Legolas's gaze rested on Anarwen a moment longer after she finished speaking. The way she looked furtively at him while he checked the landscape for danger. Neither elf seemed to catch the other in any of these fleeting moments, but the Hobbit smiled in recognition. He had seen Sam and Rosie perform this dance many times.

So lost in these thoughts was he that Frodo failed to see a bare patch in the snow ahead. Before he knew it he was tumbling backward, head over heels down the mountainside, until he finally came to rest at Aragorn's feet.

+++

Like Frodo, the ranger had been watching Anarwen's and Legolas's conversation for some time. Aragorn, more than the others, understood how troubled both of them had been by their argument and estrangement. He wondered if their rapport today marked a true reconciliation, or something more. Yet, the ranger could not help his skepticism.

The Fellowship's journey was long and the road ahead full of peril. A few crows had been the extent of the danger so far, but that was sure to end soon. He knew what hunted Frodo. The Eye of the Enemy and all it commanded would not rest until the Ring was returned to its master. As they crossed the Misty Mountains and moved ever closer to Sauron's domain, what promise could there be for the awakenings of love?

All day the ranger had felt a foreboding of some threat. Now Aragorn stared at the Mirkwood elves and wondered if something else weighed on his mood. _Who am I to doubt them? I have thrown away all that is in my heart, all that she is willing to sacrifice._ Aragorn touched the Evenstar pendant at his neck and tried to remember the last time he had felt love without the taint of worry for the future. He was still fingering the jewel when a Hobbit landed at his feet.

+++

"Perhaps we should take the road home first," laughed Legolas. "I am sure the son of Gloin will appreciate a stay in his father's former lodgings." To the prince, the thought of Gimli locked up in the palace's dungeon seemed to be a perfectly sunny accompaniment to the day.

Anarwen smiled at his good mood. "Yes, my lord. And no doubt _your_ father will insist that you join him," she shot back.

She and Legolas had been debating which route the Fellowship should take for some time. Once they had crossed the mountains, should they venture through the Elven-woods of Lórien before crossing the Anduin, or should they go father south to travel through the lands just north of Fangorn? Anarwen favored the road through Lórien, but Legolas was wary of it. His father had always avoided sending him to the home of Lord Celeborn and Lady Galadriel. Some vague distrust existed between the older Elves that went back to an earlier Age. Loyalty to his father bade him find another path.

Of course, Anarwen's joke reminded him that his loyalty was probably very much in question by now. Legolas's letter to Thranduil had most likely been torn to shreds the moment his father had finished reading it. Mirkwood's prince was not supposed to be here, and his father was undoubtedly furious that he was.

Anarwen laughed at the sheepish look on Legolas's face and continued her teasing. "Perhaps you and Boromir should devise a strategy for long-lost sons. No doubt it is the curses of your two fathers that follow us now."

Legolas grinned back at the elleth. There was some unpleasant truth to her words, but he felt so much joy to be at her side and speaking that little in her mockery could dampen his spirits. It had taken him close to an hour of mindless small talk, ostensibly about their route, to put her at ease and get her talking freely. They had spent another hour in detailed discussion of the Emyn Muil, the Black Gate, the Dead Marshes, the hazards presented by each, and the lack of better ways to their destination. Given all that lay before them, no matter which road they took, the memory of home rose bittersweet in Legolas's mind. He looked over at Anarwen and wished they were there together.

Anarwen's eyes were directed up the snowy slope, but like Legolas, her thoughts were filled with images of Mirkwood. The great overhanging boughs of its trees, the velvet black of night under the forest canopy, the blazing fires lit by merrymaking Wood-elves. A dozen memories flowed through her mind, one overlapping the other, and in nearly all of them appeared the ellon next to her.

It was hard to remain angry at him for long. She suspected he was willing to review every compass point between Caradhras and the Sea of Rhûn if it meant successfully avoiding a discussion of their argument. The closest they had gotten to it had been a few of her barbed comments. He took each of them in stride, which was itself a source of vexation.

_What am I to him?_ He had mentioned nothing of restoring her as his guard, but his conversation seemed to pretend that it had already happened. They could easily have been standing over a map in his quarters planning the next patrol. A light breeze shifted across her face. Suddenly the memory of him caressing her cheek overwhelmed her senses. Anarwen took in short breath and reddened slightly.

Legolas turned to the elleth and gave her a quizzical look, but a crashing noise from behind caused him to spin around quickly.

"Frodo!" Surprise and a little fear could be heard in Aragorn's shout. Legolas was relieved to look down toward the ranger and find him helping up the seemingly unhurt Hobbit. Then he saw Boromir retrieve a neck chain from the snow. The Ring dangled from its length, glittering in the bright sunlight.

"Boromir."

Legolas took one step toward the man, but Anarwen reached out and caught his wrist. He looked up at her and she shook her head slowly. Her hand fell away. Legolas remained where he stood but watched Boromir with narrowed, calculating eyes. From the first sign of betrayal, it would take only a moment to settle matters with an arrow.

"Boromir, give the Ring to Frodo." Aragorn's voice was even but firm.

Boromir's eyes snapped to the ranger's as if awakened from a daydream. Hesitating just a little, he made his way to the Hobbit. "As you wish," he said with forced lightness. "I care not."

Legolas watched as Boromir ruffled Frodo's hair and then turned to lumber back up the slope. The man's shield bounced off his shoulders as he moved away from the others. Its dull knell reminded Legolas of the sounds of battle.

***

12 January, 3019. Third Age.

The previous days of sun were obliterated by a dark winter blizzard that seemed to whip up out of nowhere. Bitter winds howled across Caradhras the Cruel. Great, swirling eddies of snow fought the Fellowship's progress. Aragorn and Boromir worked to thrust a lane through the white wall, but the task became so difficult that the entire Company halted without any spoken agreement to do so. 

Only the Elves could move as nimbly as if they walked on firm sand. Legolas strode to the head of the line and listened to the eerie noises that rose and fell with the wind's blast. Anarwen stepped just past him to venture farther around the cliff's turning path. Leaning out into the grey and white fury, Legolas called back to the others, "There is a fell voice on the air!"

"It's Saruman!" yelled Gandalf. The words hadn't left his mouth when snow came crashing down from above, threatening to take the Fellowship over the narrow ledge. 

"He's trying to bring down the mountain," Aragorn shouted to be heard over the wind. "Gandalf, we must turn back!"

"No!" Fighting his way forward through the snow squall, Gandalf thrust his staff toward the south and cried out a spell to calm the mountain's wrath. His voice thundered along the rock walls, echoing down to the mountainside. But the roaring winds only increased their might. Suddenly a lightening bolt stabbed at the mantel of rocks above them. As one, the Fellowship turned their faces upward. They watched with horror as a wall of snow and stone began its deadly descent.

With faster reflexes than the others, Legolas spun around toward the ledge's brink and yanked Gandalf back to safety. They both fell hard against the cliff wall just as snow buried the entire ledge. Just as suddenly, all noise ceased except for the wind whipping through the pass. A brief minute passed before Legolas dug away the snow surrounding his head and shoulders. Shaking off the wet flakes, he peered back toward his right and caught sight of the men freeing the Hobbits and the dwarf.

"We must get off the mountain!" Boromir yelled.

The voices of Gandalf, Aragorn and the others echoed back and forth as they debated what to do next. Legolas turned around, surprised that Anarwen had not spoken. He stared at the mound of snow blankly for a full second. Then fear lanced through him, along with the realization that she had not pulled herself up. Frantically he pushed the chest-high snow away until abruptly he was met with an open void. The craggy turn where Anarwen had stood moments ago was now a ragged edge that dropped away into snowy rocks and crevasses far below. The elf stared down into the chasm and screamed, "Anarwen!"

She was gone.


	8. Moria, Part 1

[Written with respect for, but no ownership in, the works of J.R.R. Tolkein, Peter Jackson, Philippa Boyens, and Fran Walsh.]

12 January, 3019. Third Age.

"You can do nothing for her now!" Aragorn jerked Legolas back from the edge.

The elf had called Anarwen's name over and over but only the echo of his own voice replied. He stared at the man in disbelief. His friend could not be saying these words. "You cannot know that!" 

Aragorn faced Legolas, his expression grim. "My duty and yours must be to Frodo now. We must get the Hobbits off this mountain or Saruman will destroy us all. We cannot waste another minute!"

"Waste?! Do not speak to me of waste!" Legolas looked around wildly. "I can find her!"

"Possibly, but at what cost? Moments more and the Ringbearer will be dead!" Aragorn gripped Legolas by the shoulders and leaned very close. "And if I leave you alone to search for her, who will help me protect Frodo? Do you not see what is happening to Boromir?" the man hissed. "Our destination is far away. For all the leagues ahead, is Gimli to be the only other warrior I can rely on to protect our quest?"

Legolas threw off Aragorn's hands and stepped backward. Desperation clawed at his insides. All his life he had made these decisions easily, put duty ahead of all else, sent his closest friends to close a battle line's hole, risked his own life to beat back the Enemy's forces. Now the quest was in peril and his duty was clear. He stared down into the chasm, hunting in vain for a spec of dark green clothing among the rocks and snow. There was no sign of her. He could not say the words.

"We cannot stay here!" yelled Boromir from behind them. He had Merry and Pippin tucked under his arms but both were shuddering. "This will be the death of the Hobbits!"

Legolas glanced at Aragorn and nodded his head slightly before looking away. Aragorn turned to Gandalf with expectation, but the wizard said, "The Ringbearer must decide."

Frodo's eyes widened. He looked from Gandalf to Aragorn to Legolas. The wizard and the ranger gazed at him sympathetically, but the elf turned away. Frodo's voice cracked a little as he finally said, "We will go through the mines." He watched the elf's head drop lower as the wizard replied, "So be it."

***

The world had fallen away. Dim sounds floated on the air, like the singing of Elves, light and haunting. Someone far away called her name. _Who calls? Am I late? Where am I supposed to be?_ An image of several men and four small children rose in her mind and then disintegrated into white dust.

Anarwen's head throbbed with pain. There was another time when color and sound swirled together in confusion. Legolas was there. _With golden hair. So beautiful. In his arms. I am in his arms…_

Images of the eastern waste's burning sun wavered, flickered, and became torchlight in the caverns of Thranduil's palace. _In his arms…_ Turning and turning, she danced to a melody that floated to her from far away. Her long velvet dress, nearly as dark as the cavern's shadows, trailed behind her. It swept the floor, a beat out of time with the music. Strong hands clasped her waist and then released her. The dancers moved faster and faster, and she laughed out loud in joy. His smile was radiant. _So beautiful. We are alone here, none can see us._ _Only us. Only him._ One hand glided across the palm of another until her fingers parted his. Sensation shot up her arm and clenched her stomach. His hand gripped hers suddenly, but he carefully pushed himself back, holding her in place by the waist until he had set a distance between them. Shame flooded her. _What have I done?_

Anarwen gasped and the throbbing returned to her head before spreading down her spine.

_What have I done?_

***

14 January, 3019. Third Age.

Legolas stood just behind the seated forms of Boromir and Aragorn. He had his bow clasped tightly to his chest. Leaning against the crumbling side of stone stairs, he looked around what was apparently a guardroom. They were deep inside Moria and hopelessly lost.

Gandalf was perched at the top of the stairs, puffing meditatively on his pipe. He faced arches carved into rock wall that led to three passages. The others were waiting for him to decide which passage to take. They had been there for several hours without any sign that the wizard was any closer to a decision. Predictably, the patience of Pippin and Merry was first to deteriorate. 

"Merry?"

"What, Pip?"

"I'm hungry."

"Be quiet, Pip."

Legolas had long ago quit listening to the Hobbits' whining. He stood alone with his thoughts, silent and motionless. Only his eyes registered his emotions as they drifted across the members of the Fellowship. _Nine companions._ He fought the despair that choked his throat. _Anarwen._

The Fellowship's journey down Caradhras to Moria's West-door was uneventful, but an attack by a creature guarding the entrance gave Legolas the cover of battle to hide his grief. With bow and arrow, he fought with effortless grace. This was what he did best. A fluid, moving meditation in death.

He had kept a tight rein on himself during the last day's trek through the mines. He had tried once to reach out with his senses and detect danger, but the raw hatred that answered had nearly overwhelmed him. Endless years of war between Dwarves and Orcs had given these caverns a permanent taint. It was so strong he could practically taste it. He had quickly sealed off the sensations, but as the Fellowship picked their way through Moria, he became certain that there was something here far worse than Goblins armed with arrows. Something even worse than the Watcher by the West-door. Great evil wandered this stone tomb.

Its presence had kept him from trying something he had not attempted in a hundred years—to reach out not with his senses but with his soul. One _fea_ calling to another. It was a magic he knew other Elves possessed, but few of the Wood-elves practiced such arts. For Legolas, Elven enchantments found expression only in his combat skills. They gave him the ability to act as one with any weapon and turn any battlefield to his advantage. But other than a gift of perceiving approaching threats, mystical arts eluded him.

A hundred years ago, Arwen Undomiel had tried to tutor him in this magic. His feeble attempts to call to a Mirkwood maiden had yielded little more than aggravation. With eyes shut tight and determination written in a frown, Legolas had tried to empty his mind and speak with his soul. "I feel nothing," he gritted out after long minutes.

"Relax and try…ai!" Arwen gasped as a stag leapt across the stone bench where they sat. She turned to stare wide-eyed at Legolas and then collapsed in laughter. "Perhaps your _fea_ calls only for the hunt, not the quarry," she said between giggles, not really speaking of deer.

Legolas had given her an embarrassed grin and abandoned the lesson there. He was not accustomed to failing so spectacularly. Now the face of a different _elleth_ overtook his thoughts. _What if I call to her and rouse something else?_ He put the worry out of his mind. He had to know what had happened to her. When he was certain the others were not looking, he closed his eyes slowly. Emptying his mind of all else, he imagined layer upon layer a black enveloping him. When only black remained, he spoke one word inside his mind. _Anarwen…_

Across the chamber, Gimli shifted his pipe and fixed his gaze on the Company's remaining elf. The dwarf had kept to himself since they had opened the West-door and found his kinsmen littering the floor. Promises of roaring fires and merrymaking had died on his lips. No doubt the elf had thought him boasting, but he had only meant to bolster the boy's spirits. The Dwarves celebrated their fallen brothers with drink, song, and remembrance of better times. He did not know how the Elves honored their dead, but surely his people's way was good enough for Lady Anarwen. A warrior she may have been, but she was also a Lady to his way of thinking and deserving of the finest homage they could muster.

But the arrow-riddled bodies had proven him a fool. The Fellowship should not have taken this road. Moria might well claim all their lives before it was finished with them.

Gimli's bitter thoughts faded as he mulled over the elf's strange appearance. The boy had his eyes closed and seemed to be in deep concentration. The dwarf watched him for a few more minutes. A bit of legend came to him. Some said that the Eldar of old could speak in each other's thoughts, converse with one another no matter the distance between them.

Unbidden, he recalled his last day in Rivendell. Anarwen had listened with rapt attention as he spun some tale of his skill with an axe and the foes he had vanquished. Gimli was not sure he believed the girl remained alive, but if this boy thought it so, he would not break faith either. A plan shaped itself in his mind. _Only a fool's hope, but a fine one even so, _he thought.

"You call to her?" The elf's eyes flew open and bore into the dwarf before him. Legolas nodded stiffly and looked toward the floor to hide what else might be visible in his eyes. Despite his best efforts, there had been no reply.

"She is in my thoughts too, lad." Gimli's whisper was a low rumble. "You do not believe she is dead?"

Legolas flinched at the word. With every fiber of his being he wanted to strike the dwarf just for using it. Instead, he gripped his bow a little more tightly until he could force out civil words. "No. I would know it."

Gimli eyed the Elven-prince before him. Most of the Elves wore an air of detachment like a second skin. Legolas looked more like a bow string that had been wound far past its breaking point. That he was still here, bound to the Fellowship, but trying to reach out to the girl impressed the dwarf greatly. "Good, lad. I do not believe it either."

Legolas stared at the dwarf but did not reply. He did not know what to say, but the knowledge that at least one other person believed Anarwen to be alive filled him with a fierce hope. For her to simply disappear from existence…one minute within his grasp and the next minute gone…He could not accept the possibility that those moments were her last. That Gimli shared his thoughts bolstered his spirits more than he would have thought possible.

"Listen to me, lad," the dwarf continued. "All we need is two days. When we reach the other side, we will find the Mirrormere just beyond the East-gate. There, we can let Gandalf and Aragorn lead the others on while you and I backtrack across the east side of the pass. Saruman will have long ago silenced his storms. With only two of us we can make quick work of the route. We will find her and return to the others in no time at all." Gimli slapped the elf on the shoulder. "We can find her, lad. Do not worry."

A small voice inside Legolas wanted to scream in defiance, tell this dwarf that no Elf needed a stumpy oaf slowing him down, that he could find Anarwen on his own, that she could take care of herself and needed no one, that… On and on the vile voice raged at the circumstances that had taken her from his side and then sent him a Dwarf as her loyal friend and would-be rescuer.

The logical part of his mind told him that all this was Moria's demons, not his own. He had opened himself to Anarwen and that had allowed the evil of this place past his defenses. He fought off the dark impulses, latching onto the dwarf's plan without a single thought to Aragorn's warnings. "Yes. We shall find her. We will go together and bring her back."

"Then we are agreed, lad." Gimli gave the elf's shoulder a final grip and trudged back to the other side of the stairs.

_I will find you. Anarwen, I will find you._

***

Author's notes:

This one was a real struggle. And yes, I did make you wait weeks only to keep the action minimal and the angst extreme. I promise to learn to write action by the next chapter. (Tolkein et al. are going to force it on me anyway.) This one isn't any longer than the others, so my apologies there. I tend to fuss over every stupid word, so longer chapters mean greater delays posting.

Everyone, thank you for your kind reviews. A few individual mentions:

Tinstar: I wasn't really aware of the contrast between Anarwen's and Legolas's views of their conversation. I like that way of looking at it. You inspired a part in this chapter.

Snitch: Where are you? I miss my dependably quick reviews. See, I'm pathetically needy that way.


	9. Moria, Part 2

[Written with respect for, but no ownership in, the works of J.R.R. Tolkein, Peter Jackson, Philippa Boyens, and Fran Walsh.]

15 January, 3019. Third Age.

"Behold the great realm and city of the Dwarrowdelf." 

The previous day's halt in the guardroom had ended when Gandalf abruptly picked the northern passage. After endless hours spent trudging along wide, upward sloping corridors, they had finally reached the cavernous hall that now stretched out before them.

The gleam from Gandalf's staff flared and all stared about in wonder. The faces of the Fellowship turned upward, eyes traveling along the height of towering pillars to reach a vast stone roof far above. Shadows flickered across the broken floor below. The end of the hall was somewhere in front of them, shrouded in darkness. 

"There's an eye-opener, make no mistake," Sam muttered. He moved forward to make sure he stayed within the comforting circle of the wizard's light.

Gimli caught sight of a small room off to their right. Just beyond its doors, a high window sent a shaft of dazzling sunlight down to illuminate a stone table. The dwarf's stomach sank. He took off running.

"Gimli!" Gandalf cried. 

The dwarf reached the white oblong slab and sank to his knees. "No!"

The other members of the Company entered the chamber slowly. The wizard moved to one side of the slab to read the inscription at its head. "Here lies Balin, son of Fundin. Lord of Moria." He sighed before adding, "He is dead. It is as I feared." Gimli wailed at the words, and Boromir moved to put a sympathetic hand on the dwarf's shoulder.

Aragorn and Legolas remained near the doors. The elf read the tension in the man's body and knew what the ranger was thinking. "We must move on. We cannot linger," he whispered. Both looked toward Gandalf, hoping he could pull the Fellowship back together. But the wizard's attention had fallen on a crumbling book held between skeletal hands. Gandalf gently loosened the scribe's death grip, opened the book to the last entry, and began reading aloud.

"They have taken the Bridge and the second hall. We have barred the Gates but cannot hold them for long…The ground shakes. Drums…drums in the deep." Dread filled the Company. The Dwarf bodies scattered about the chamber had undoubtedly met a cruel end. Gandalf intoned the final scrawled words. "We cannot get out. Shadow moves in the dark…We cannot get out……they are coming."

Dead silence was broken by a sharp metallic clatter. In a far corner, Pippin watched in horror as the helmed head of a dead dwarf tipped backward from his hand and fell over the lip of a well. The armor-clad body of its owner slid down to follow. Scrapping the walls all along its descent, it dragged a length of chain in its wake. A bucket at the end of the links flew over the side. The entire mess—helm, armor, chain, and bucket—hurtled down into the depths of Moria. The raucous din echoed through the halls. Finally, the jumble crashed into something far below.

Silence descended for several heartbeats. "Fool of a Took!" Gandalf growled. "Throw yourself in next time and rid us of your stupidity!" 

Pippin stared at the floor in shame, but the wizard halted midstep. What Pippin at first took for the loud beating of his heart became an echo from inside the well. _Doom, doom_ sounded a drum-beat in the distance. _Doom, boom, doom_. The drums beat faster and harsh laughter cackled from below.

"Orcs!" spit out Legolas. Boromir rushed past him to look outside the chamber. A set of arrows plunged into the doors, missing him by inches, and a howl went up from the darkness. "They have a cave troll," he muttered to Aragorn as they slammed the doors shut.

Quickly they barred the doors and readied their weapons. Legolas nocked an arrow and straightened into prefect stance, easing the bowstring back to full drawn. His mind cleared of all distractions. Bow, arrow and body were one balanced line, poised for a target to appear. Scurrying noises came from outside the door. Small chips of wood broke away and fell inward. Dagger tips widened a small hole in the doors' center. Whatever had made the hole met its end on the long hunting point of a Mirkwood arrow.

The first death among the hoard ignited their rage. Scrambling through the disintegrating doors, creatures with round, luminous eyes snarled with joyous hatred. One Orc leapt high, vaulting over the others and eager to be among the first to attack. He was the second to die after Legolas's arrow centered on the creature's gray forehead. More orcs clamored into the room, scuttling toward the nine companions. Their squealing cries bounced off the chamber's walls.

Behind the first group of rat-like creatures, three others dragged a long chain into the room. Suddenly the final tatters of the doors burst apart, and the Fellowship got their first full look at what lived at the end of the shackles. Standing twice the height of a man, the lumbering form of a cave troll stalked into the chamber. It raised its club and sent its captors flying in all directions. Legolas held his ground and shot an arrow into the troll's shoulder. Its tough hide barely looked wounded but the beast bellowed ferociously.

The elf spun around, hunting for better position. He sprang up to a raised gallery that ran along the room's edge. Orcs swarmed to him and were executed quickly. Legolas turned back toward the room's center in time to see the troll heave its club above Gimli. The elf nocked two arrows and sent them speeding around the dwarf, into the troll's raised arm. The creature stumbled to one side, but Legolas had no time to continue defending the dwarf. More orcs ran toward him, stabbing with swords and shields.

Legolas clutched his bow in one hand and took on his foes with a white knife in the other. Body and blade became a single slashing weapon. The orcs scattered away. The elf heard a rattling noise behind him and spun around to find the troll now armed with its own fetters. The chains spun in a slow, menacing arc above the troll's head. Suddenly, the beast snapped the links down toward the elf. Legolas jumped to one side, narrowing avoiding the deadly metal. Again, the chain snapped at his heels but the elf had already jumped aside. Enraged, the troll jerked the chains back but found them curled around a stone pillar.

Legolas steadied one foot against the tangled chains. Stepping lightly, he ran up them to stand upright on the troll's head. In one smooth motion, he sheathed his knife in its scabbard and plucked an arrow from his quiver. He drew back and shot straight down.

The troll screamed and swatted at the elf, but the arrow sticking out from its head didn't end its life. Legolas jumped down to the chamber floor, easily avoiding the troll's grasp. Lurching from one side to the other, the troll staggered to the far end of the room. Legolas readied another arrow but paused to find the kill shot. More orcs surged his way before he could find the right mark. He wasted his arrow into the closest creature. The close quarters had made his bow impossible to use for much longer. Quickly he holstered it onto his back and unsheathed both knives. Moving with graceful curving motions, he swept away one orc after another, but for every one that fell dead to the floor or retreated in fear, three more appeared to ring him.

Legolas remained outwardly calm but tension was beginning to take hold of him. He knew Merry, Pippin, and Frodo were hiding behind columns near the far end of the chamber. The troll's keen sense of smell would reveal them in moments, but the elf could not get himself free to help them. Boromir, Gandalf, and Gimli were scattered about the room, trapped in small knots of orcs. Legolas heard Frodo call out, "Aragorn!" The elf whirled his knives faster. Along the periphery of his vision, he saw the ranger fly through the air and hit the stone wall. Legolas toppled the head off the orc in front of him, but two more scrambled over the body to take him on. From the far end of the room, the troll howled and there was a sharp gasping sound.

Legolas kicked the final orc off the end of his blade and turned to find Merry and Pippin leaping on top of the troll. The Hobbits stabbed down into the beast's head again and again, but their small daggers had as little effect as Legolas's arrow. The troll bucked and batted at them. Legolas switched back to his bow and steadied another shot. The troll grabbed a handful of Merry and flung the Hobbit to the floor. _Hold…hold_, the elf told himself. Finally, the mark appeared. His arrow drilled up through the troll's open mouth.

The troll tried to poke away the tiny weapon but its limbs refused to work. With one last lurch, it swayed back and then pitched forward to land at the elf's feet. Pippin slid along the floor, coming to rest near Merry.

Frodo's quiet voice broke the silence. "I'm alive. I'm not hurt." The rest of the Fellowship rushed over to find the Hobbit sitting upright and rubbing his chest. A long spear marked with Dwarven runes lay at his feet. "You are full of surprises, Master Baggins," laughed Gimli. The Company's relief was cut short by the sounds of drum beats. They all looked toward the broken doors.

"Now!" cried Gandalf. "We must run for it! Out the far passage!" He pointed toward a narrow archway in the east wall. Light from the chamber shown into the passage only far enough to expose the top of a stairwell. A long flight of stairs fled down into utter darkness. "Quickly! Off you go, all of you, down the stairs."

Single file, the Company flew down the steps. Their way angled to the right several times with many flights of stairs in between each turn. Boromir and Aragorn led the way. Legolas kept to the rear of the Hobbits, listening closely for the sounds of Gandalf, who trailed behind. Drum-beats echoed but seemed to be fading in the distance.

An hour into their race and they had gone a mile deeper into Moria's labyrinth. The passage's walls grew more distinct. Red light glittered along the stone. Down another fifty stairs, Aragorn saw an archway ahead. Red light blazed from the hall beyond. Instinctively, he slowed to a stop in front of the arch and signaled for the others to follow him slowly.

The hall they entered looked nearly identical to the one they had found hours ago. The Company seemed to be at one end of its expanse. Between them and the distant wall, a long gash in the floor opened into red flames. Soaring pillars stretched between floor and roof.

"The Gates are near," Gandalf whispered, out of breath. "The bridge is just behind us and…"

_Doom, doom._ The pillars trembled. _Doom, doom._ The floor shook beneath their feet.

"What is this new devilry?" hissed Boromir. 

The Company stared into the hall's far end. Flames licked along the highest reaches of the walls. A burning heat simmered in the air. _Doom, doom._

Gandalf leaned into his staff heavily. "A Balrog," he answered.

Legolas's eyes widened in fear. _Morgoth's evil is upon us!_

"A demon of the ancient world," Gandalf said. "This foe is beyond any of you. Fly!" 

The Company turned and sped toward the near end of the hall. In front of them, the floor vanished and a narrow stone bridge spanned a black depthless pit. _Doom, doom._ One by one they ran across the slender bridge, looking neither down into the chasm nor behind them to what pursued. _Doom, doom. _It was near.Legolas focused only the Hobbits in front of him, making sure they did not stray too close the edge. When he reached the safety of the bridge's end, he turned and saw Gandalf slow to a stop in the middle of the span. The wizard faced the far side. _Doom, doom._

Moria's walls shuddered. An immense, dark figure reached the bridge. A formless blend of shadow and flame, it towered over the wizard. Monstrous wings spread out from its shapeless sides. Gandalf the Grey stood alone but faced the Balrog with fierce determination. "You cannot pass!" the wizard cried. The glow from his staff suddenly flared, lighting the bridge and the depths below. "I am a servant of the Secret Fire, wielder of the flame of Anor. The dark fire will not avail you, flame of Udûn!" 

The Balrog swung at the wizard with a sword made of flame, but Gandalf shattered the fiery weapon with his own blade. The wizard's voice bellowed through the halls. "Go back to the Shadow!"

Shadow and flame rippled along the Balrog's body. Its wings spread toward the far walls. Raising one blackened claw, it cracked a whip of many thongs.  

"You shall not pass!" Gandalf shouted and drove his staff into the bridge. The Balrog hesitated and then surged forward. Beneath its feet, the bridge cracked. Crumbling stone cut the narrow span in half. The blazing fires of the demon's eyes widened as it plunged backward into the chasm.

Gandalf leaned onto his staff. Bent over with exhaustion, he watched the Balrog fall for a moment more before turning to follow the others to safety. He had gone one step when black thongs whipped up from the darkness to curl around his ankle and yank him over the edge. He grasped frantically to the broken stonework. "Fly, you fools!" he cried, and was gone.

"Noooooo!" Frodo's scream echoed throughout the hall.

Legolas stood rooted with horror. He stared into the pit, disbelief written on his face. The chasm's depths had returned to a pitch black void and yet he could not turn away. An arrow clattering to his feet finally snapped him back to the present. The elf grabbed Pippin and Merry and headed for the stairs leading out. Ahead of them, Boromir ran holding Frodo to his chest. Gimli and Sam stumbled along several yards in front of the others. As Legolas reached the top, he heard Aragorn at the foot of the stairs pursued by drum-beats and arrows.

The stairs led to a wide echoing passage. On and on the Company ran until their path opened into a bright hall lit by high east-facing windows. The great Gate opened before them, and they dashed toward the sunlight. Once outside they staggered to a halt, breathless and weeping.

For the first time in days, Legolas felt the wind on his face. He slowly focused on his surroundings. Dimrill Dale lay about them, calm in the afternoon sunlight. The road leading from Moria's East-door wound a broken path ahead. His eyes followed its winding track along a distance of a mile until it met a long, oval pool. _The Mirrormere._ A white torrent of cascading falls fed into the north end of its waters. Next to them, the steep, crumbling steps of the Dimrill Stair marked the east end of the Redhorn Pass. This had been their destination before the cruelty of Caradhras had sent them backtracking down the mountain and through the tomb of Moria. Ten had set out from Rivendell to reach this spot. Now only eight remained to see it. The elf could only stare at it numbly.

Elrond's parting words echoed in Legolas's mind. _"…yet no oath nor bond is laid on you to go further than you will."_ Legolas stared at the broken stairs but his mind refused to release the vision of Gandalf falling backwards into the abyss. The horror of it gripped his soul.

A light breeze carried sounds of the dwarf's anguish to the elf's ears. Pippin huddled on the ground a few yards closer, curled up at Merry's feet. Both Hobbits were crying. Legolas felt his eyes begin to sting, but he did not move.

"Legolas! Get them up." Aragorn's shout echoed across the Dale. "Come, Boromir."

Boromir began to protest but Legolas did not listen. Stiffly, the elf moved to the Hobbits and helped them to their feet. Pippin startled at the gentle hand on his arm. He turned his tear-marked face upward, but the elf looked away. Behind them, Aragorn was saying something about orcs. Nearly three centuries of training supplied Legolas with the quick assessment that all of them were beyond bowshot of Moria's gate.

Sam joined Merry and Pippin, and the three began a halting march along the winding eastward road. Legolas followed a pace behind. Pippin continued to sob quietly. As the elf watched, Merry reached over to his friend and enclosed Pippin's hand in his own. It was such a small gesture, but the elf took in a sharp breath and turned his watering eyes back toward the Dimrill Stair.

Somewhere up those steps and over the pass, Anarwen had met an unknown fate. Behind them, Gandalf had been taken by shadow and flame. Many leagues in the eastern distance, the Eye of Sauron moved in unceasing search for the Ringbearer.  

Duty that had come so easily to Legolas for hundreds of years now seemed impossibly bitter. He needed no oath nor bond to know what needed to be done. He tore his eyes away from the steps.

_Anarwen, forgive me._

***

Author's notes:

Whew! Another month, another chapter. You'd think it would be easier with the book and the movie supplying the details, but no. I guess it just takes me a while to put the nouns together with the verbs (not to mention the heavy straining getting to the punctuation).

Thank you again for all your kind reviews, especially those of you who found this fic recently. Replies to a couple of your comments:

Iluvien, yes you rightly point out that the concepts of life and death as they concern Elves and Men are described differently in the LoTR Appendix than here. I think Tolkein's changing ideas about the "immortality" of the Elves versus the death of Men are some of the most interesting parts of his writing. For my tale, I've drawn more from a story called "The Debate of Finrod and Andreth," which is in one Christopher Tolkein's collections of his father's works. In it, Andreth (a mortal woman) tells Finrod (an Elven King and Galadriel's brother) that "…ye know that in dying you do not leave the world, and that you may return to life. Otherwise it is with us: dying we die, and we go out to no return. Death is an uttermost end, a loss irremediable."

However, there's plenty in that piece that I have completely ignored because frankly I'm going to have to read it about 10 more times to really get it. Deep stuff. I'm just borrowing a little of it for my silly romance.

Tinstar, you questioned Gimli's and Legolas's motivation regarding Anarwen's rescue. One aspect that I didn't make explicit in that section is the influence of the Ring. For the purposes of this story, I believe the Ring corrupts all who are near it, even the most noble and strong of the Fellowship. (As Galadriel says, "One by one it will destroy them all…")

I don't believe either Gimli or Legolas would try to take the Ring, but I think that its presence clouds their reasoning. Because of it, the surest path to hurting the Fellowship (which would ultimately help the Ring's goal of getting back to its master) may seem like the right thing to do at the time. I also think Gimli is especially prone to the kind of no-one-gets-left-behind stuff that seems honorable until additional people get hurt.

With Legolas, things are even more murky because he understands so little of what he feels for Anarwen. What is clear is that in the past he has put her in danger through his own willfulness. She nearly died that time and he definitely blames himself for that even if he hasn't said so. Now he's in the Fellowship, something his father did not send him to do, and she seems to have paid a price for that decision (made under the influence of the Ring). Combine multiple layers of guilt (something I don't think he has cause to feel very often) with some deep feelings for her that he doesn't understand, and who knows what he'd do.

So, I think both of them have the best of intentions in contemplating Anarwen's rescue but their unconscious motivations are more complex and include the Ring working on their weaknesses. Of course, by the end of this chapter the loss of Gandalf shocks Legolas into doing the right thing.

For those of you who like the flashbacks, you'll see more of them in the next chapter.

That's enough out of me for now. See you in a month.


	10. Left Behind But Not Lost, Part 1

[Written really, really slowly and with much respect for (but no ownership in) the works of J.R.R. Tolkein, Peter Jackson, Philippa Boyens, and Fran Walsh.]

Before dawn. 15 January, 3019. Third Age.

"Misty Mountains indeed," grumbled Anarwen. She rubbed a stiff hand across her eyes to focus them better. Rising on one elbow, she looked around slowly. Night still held the world in its grip. A heavy fog wove between the thick tree trunks that surrounded her. Dark pine trees reached toward the sky but the mist shrouded all save the first tier of boughs. White snow crunched beneath her as she shifted. _That would account for my clothes_, she thought irritably. Everything she wore clung to her damply. Groggy and aching, she eased herself up into a sitting position and tried to remember what had happened.

There had been a driving snow storm. Bitter winds had fought her but she had been determined to scout around the bend, warn the others of anything that awaited…warn the others…"Legolas!"…"Legolas!"… Her voice croaked out his name, and she coughed harshly. "Aragorn!"……"Gimli?" The silence grew heavier each time she called. None answered.

A rising feeling of panic knotted her stomach. _Where?…I…_ The last thing she remembered was a bolt of lightening striking above their heads, a glimpse of snow descending, and then the rocky shelf beneath her feet gave way…falling…falling…

Her insides churned with the sensation. She held her hands flat to the snow to steady herself. _Only the memory of it…I am fine…I am fine…_The dizziness receded but left a dull throbbing behind her eyes. She felt along the side of her head. Dried blood flecked her fingertips as she brought them forward. _Damnable…wretched…_Her father's many pet curses jumbled together before ending in an exasperated sigh.

Anarwen had no idea where she was or how long she had been here. Evidently she had been thrown downslope of the pass, but the storm had rendered the landscape invisible that day. She recognized nothing in her surroundings, and the mist made it impossible to orient herself. She folded her knees to her chest and looked around into the dark forest.__

_Not lost. Just…_Faces skittered through her thoughts. Frodo's shy smile. Gimli's booming laugh. Gandalf's stern expression thawing into amusement. Anarwen stared sightlessly into the murky shadows. Clear blue eyes seemed to glow in the distance.__

"Ah! Stop it!" Anarwen hissed and rubbed her eyes harshly. Suddenly her stomach grumbled loudly. Her difficulty in concentrating became embarrassingly clear. _Have you been knocked senseless, girl?_ Her father's gruff voice blended with that of Duilin, the last captain of Legolas's guard. The first thing she should have done on awakening was to check her supplies and weapons. She fumbled at her side. Her long knife was still sheathed there, but as she pulled her battered quiver off, she realized her arrows and bow were gone. A pouch slung at her waist produced one square of _lembas_. She broke off a small piece and washed it down with a little melted snow.

Pulling her knees to her chest again, Anarwen munched quietly at one last bite of the Elven-bread. The rest was tucked away for another day. She would have to eat sparingly. It would not be a quick or simple matter to find the others. They could be anywhere by now.

She startled at the sudden thought that they might have tumbled down the mountain with her. Frantically she replayed each second of the storm, the sound of the wind, the sensation of her fall, her last glimpse before everything turned to black. Images flickered in her mind's eye. Legolas pulling Gandalf back to safety at the cliff wall. A white curtain descending on all of them. Her body plunging downward, the snowy ledge receding from her sight. She had fallen but they had not. For a moment, it was absurdly comforting.

She stared up where she imagined the ledge might be, but the mist hid any sign that might have proved her right or wrong. The only solution was to wait for _Anor_ to burn it away. Then she would be able to locate the ledge and determine which direction to take to find the Fellowship. Until then, there was little she could do.

Deciding the best course would be to revive her strength, Anarwen crawled toward one of the towering pines and eased her back against its solid base. She tucked her legs under her and drifted into a shallow state of semi-consciousness. The healing power of _Arda_ slowly seeped into her body, soothing the aches. As her body restored itself, her mind wandered through time and memory. Dark woods gave way to shadowy halls. Wind stirring the trees became the soft rustling of long silken gowns. The hushed tones of spoken Elvish. The familiar feeling of being utterly alone.

November, 3017. Third Age.

Dark felt boots padded soundless along a narrow gallery. Red torchlight illuminated the room to her right, but here under a balcony carved from living rock, Anarwen moved quickly between bands of light cut by deep shadows. The gallery circled one of the upper halls of Thranduil's caverns, where tonight a feast marked a successful hunt. A row of columns separated her from the throng of celebrating Elves. Anarwen had her own reasons for commemorating the day but she kept them to herself. No one else knew that today marked the date of her birth.

Elves did not celebrate birthdays, but Anarwen had been raised among the children of Lake-town and birthdays were among her favorite memories as an elfling. The half-elven girl received a gift wrought by her father's hands each year, along with some special sweet bought from the shops that lined Lake-town's market-pool. The expense drained her father's meager coin, but he had been determined to make up for his wife's abandonment of their only child. Long after Anarwen had made a home in Mirkwood, her mother's birthplace, she would receive a small gift each November. The tradition ended with her father's death. All the Novembers since had been a time of memories and melancholy. The loss of both her parents, who were her entire family, seemed especially difficult on this day.

Tonight she found solace in duty. She had delivered a message to Sador, the captain of Thranduil's personal guard, who was here with the leadership of Mirkwood's Elven forces. The task was simple enough to complete without being noticed by too many of those gathered. For that she was grateful. She did not feel like talking to anyone. A pile of log books waited for her in the guards' quarters. Ten more paces and she would be out the door, free from any obligation to pretend what she did not feel.

"Anarwen, I am happy to see you here."

The clear Elvish voice startled her out of her thoughts. She turned around to find an alarmingly handsome elf standing behind her. His dark velvet attire was both elegant and perfectly chosen to illuminate his bright blue eyes. He regarded her with quiet composure.

Had any among the crowded hall noticed, they might have been surprised to recognize Antion as the _ellon_ now striding toward Anarwen with a pleasant smile on his face. His very public sparring match with her had occurred years ago, but all of Mirkwood's Elves, with their perfect memories, remembered the outcome as if it was yesterday. Despite her disqualification that day, Anarwen had joined Legolas's guard within the year but it had taken Antion three more to be welcomed into the same service.

They were circumstances almost surely designed to fuel Antion's antipathy for the half-elven girl. But, as always, fate had intervened and circumstances had changed. During Antion's first expedition as a royal guard, the prince and his contingent were surprised by an orc attack. The Elves made quick work of the creatures, but at one point, Antion had turned to find himself facing a charging orc…and froze. As she spent her last arrow, Anarwen caught a glimpse of his wide-eyed expression and recognized the certain death it foretold. Without a second thought, she threw her dagger at the orc, catching it in the throat. The creature fell at Antion's feet but Anarwen's quick thinking had left her without any weapon. The end of the skirmish came soon after, but Legolas's wrath had waited until they were safely back in the Elven-king's caverns. Not until the prince was half-way through upbraiding both of them did Anarwen realize that Legolas must have dispatched another orc sneaking up behind her. She may have saved Antion, but she had also lost concentration on the foes around her and foolishly left herself open to attack.

After the prince's angry dismissal, Anarwen and Antion had walked back to their quarters in awkward silence. She would have wagered that to Antion the only thing worse than Legolas's criticism was Anarwen's presence in the same room. It did not matter that she had received an equal share of Legolas's anger. Antion's pride was obviously smarting, probably far more than when she had held him at knife-point on the tournament field. They had reached his door without a word spoken between them. Anarwen had continued walking toward her own chamber until a small cough brought her to a halt.

"Anarwen?" His voice seemed unnaturally strained. Anarwen turned back slowly. The _ellon_ stood in his doorway, shifting his eyes between her face and the floor. "I am sorry."

He had clearly expected a reply but she hadn't known what to say. His apology could have referred to anything—the orc, their lord's anger, his own actions years ago. Venturing two steps toward him, she fumbled for the right words. "I have been told a thing," she said quietly and looked into his eyes before continuing. "In battle, the winner is the one who survives the day. We did not greet Mandos on this one, Antion." A small grin softened her face. "There seems to have been little else to praise, but that is worthy of some gratitude at least."

Antion had given her a brief nod before lowering his eyes again. Anarwen had turned away and resumed walking quickly down the passage. As she reached a connecting hallway, she heard Antion clear his throat again. He called out to her, "I suppose facing the grip of your blade for once offers the better perspective."

If she had not looked into his eyes, she might have thought his words some defensive rebuff. But Antion's self-conscious, tentative expression seemed to suggest something else. She returned his tight smile and resolved to dispel the tension. "Yes. Avoid the sharp end more often and you will be fine." She had laughed and then left him.

Whatever lay between them had faded over the years into a quiet, respectful regard for each others' talents. And, much to Antion's chagrin, it was occasionally accompanied by a measure of Anarwen's wit. Now as they stood in the shadows of Thranduil's hall, she swept her eyes over his beautiful garments and couldn't resist a small jab. "Antion, I am surprised to see you alone. Surely a dozen maidens are fretting at your inattention."

"But I am not alone," he replied earnestly. His polite smile didn't waver. He turned slightly to contemplate the crowd of dancers, and Anarwen joined him at his side, not quite sure what to do.

She should have guessed that he would be here as someone's escort. Antion spent most court functions at the center of a wide circle of admirers. Anarwen gazed toward the center of the hall and found Legolas dancing with the one _elleth_ stunning enough to ensure she had been accompanied by either Antion or their lord. _Lady Laineth._ Anarwen glanced to her side and found Antion's eyes locked on the same sight. She finally caught his attention with a knowing smile.

"No, I did not mean…I…" Antion's words trailed away into silence, but Anarwen was paying little attention.

She gazed at the prince and the _elleth_ moving in and out of his arms. The flaxen-haired girl stepped gracefully to circle Legolas before moving to face him. Her delicate features shifted into a sly ghost of a smile. Raising a hand to meet his, her fingers trailed along his open palm and then quickly threaded his fingers to entwine his hand in her own.

From the shadows, Anarwen unconsciously tilted her head to one side as she studied the _elleth's_ beautiful movements. They only reminded her of her own inadequacies. She had never learned much of such arts. The prospect of making a fool of herself kept her here under the balcony on the rare occasions that she bothered to attend these celebrations. Whatever Laineth had done had caused Legolas to arch an eyebrow and break into his own smile. Both dancers laughed lightly and spun away as the music shifted tempo.

Anarwen's attention drifted back to Antion. She ventured another look his way and found his eyes fastened on her. Something had altered his mood, although she could not fathom it. "What did you say, Antion?"

"Ummm…I…" Abruptly he turned his back on the hall and faced Anarwen. "Did you hear that the King has requested volunteers for a special mission?"

"Yes, I have heard." The Elves of Thranduil's forces had spoken of little else during the previous week. Rumors ran wild, but few knew much other than it was to be a year-long expedition within Rhovanion.

"No one has come forward yet."

"No," Anarwen said quietly. She doubted many would. Rhovanion encompassed vast and foreboding lands bounded by the Misty Mountains in the west, the Sea of Rhûn in the east, the Grey Mountains in the north, and the Ash and White Mountains in the south. Mirkwood occupied a large portion of the area but Anarwen suspected that their home forest was not to be the mission's focus.

Even though Sauron had long ago abandoned Dol Guldur—his fortress in Mirkwood's southern reaches—his servants seemed to have held onto small territories within a few days' journey of the forest. During the last few years, their surprise attacks on Elven patrols had quadrupled in number. They seemed to be able to strike at will from all compass points. With such forces in place, the Enemy would not have to launch a large attack from Mordor to greatly harm Thranduil's Elves. The Elven-king was undoubtedly plotting his own stratagem with surveillance the likely starting point.

"I have been thinking that I would do so."

"Do what?" Anarwen replied vaguely. The crowd of dancers swirled behind Antion's back.

"Volunteer."

It took a moment for Antion's meaning to sink in. Anarwen hid her surprise with a look of exaggerated disbelief. "Antion, the mission will last a year. Two weeks without your presence and Mirkwood's _ellyth _will stage a revolt. I imagine our King prefers to keep his throne. Do not be foolish."

"You think the mission foolish?" he asked quickly.

_He cannot be serious._ Sending Antion on such a journey was nearly as preposterous as sending Legolas. "No, I think it requires a…a certain type of person. It will be a long and solitary campaign." She gave him another lopsided grin. "Think of it…no one to appreciate your fine clothes for months and months and–"

"You think me as shallow as that?" Antion's expression begged her to deny it.

"No, Antion, I do not. It was only a jest. Do not be so serious."

"Do you not think me brave enough to face–"

"I do not question your bravery. I think only that you have much that ties you here. Family, friends." Anarwen gave him a sidelong glance and added, "More foolish moon-eyed girls than can be counted."

Antion opened his mouth but Anarwen cut him off before he could object. She abandoned her glib tone and tried to make him understand. "It is not the same as our duties here. Whoever takes this quest must live by their wits alone, apart from all they know. There will be no comrades to share the responsibility. And those left behind will know nothing of your fate for months at a time. Maybe never, if fate turns against you. It is a heavy burden to place on those who love you. Think of your mother and father, your brothers..."

The smile faded from her face and she turned back toward the crowded hall. The torchlight seemed almost painfully bright and the joyous Elves unreal in their beauty. She added quietly, "No, whoever does this must be someone who is alone in this world, someone who will not be missed if things do not go well."

"There is none among us such as that. Each of us leaves behind someone every time we patrol the forest."

_Not all of us. _"Well, let it be someone else, Antion. Do not volunteer for this quest."__

Antion's eyes searched her face for a long moment. Finally he moved back to her side. Both guards stared at the dancers, lost in thought. Minutes passed before she heard him speak. "I will think on what you have said."

Anarwen forced a smile on her face. "Enough thinking for today. Better that you retrieve your lady from our Prince." Before he could come up with another protest she gave his shoulder a light shove. "Just go," she said with a laugh.

The handsome elf wandered back into the throng and was immediately surrounded by a glittering array of Elven-maidens. _Moths to the flame._ Anarwen watched for another moment, a bemused expression touching her lips, before her eyes wandered over the crowd again, finally falling on Legolas. Partnered now with a stunning raven-haired _elleth_, Thranduil's only son shone like no other.

_Left behind._ Something in Antion's words weighed on her heart. Already hidden within the gallery's deepest shadows, she edged a little nearer to a column. Dancers faded from her view until only Legolas remained. Anarwen stared at the radiant vision as if seeing him for the first time.

He had plucked her from obscurity to give her more than she had believed possible. Because he had ignored both caution and tradition, she had gained honor in service to others and pride in true accomplishments. But there was a price to be paid. The passage of time, so very long and slow for the Elves, had not proved her friend. Spring had come and gone more than twenty times since he had appeared in her doorway, looking for his arrow and her. In all that time, the Wood-elves had only hardened their sentiments toward her. Many among Mirkwood's forces viewed her as competition for advancement, while nearly every _elleth_ considered her a rival for Legolas's attention. It dawned on her now that what kept her in Mirkwood also stripped her life of other possibilities. Was there to be nothing else but the discipline of duty, alleviated only by the heat of battle?

Her eyes burned. _Stop it, you morbid fool!_ Anarwen turned to leave but could not stop herself from gazing back. In the middle of the dancers, Legolas spun the dark-haired girl.

_Not all those who wander are lost._ Perhaps it was time to begin anew.


	11. Left Behind But Not Lost, Part 2

Written really, really slowly and with much respect for (but no ownership in) the works of J.R.R. Tolkein, Peter Jackson, Philippa Boyens, and Fran Walsh.

* * *

Before dawn. 15 January, 3019. Third Age. Anarwen waits for the light of day and continues to dream of the past.

* * *

"And this is what you wish?"

"Yes, my lord."

"Why?"

"I…" She had explained twice already. "Because I believe the threat to our people grows—"

"Yes, yes." Legolas shifted slightly in his chair. "I have heard your words." He continued staring at her blankly.

Anarwen felt her throat tighten. _He doesn't believe me._ "I know of no other truth, my lord."

"I do not doubt your intentions. But I cannot see the logic in sending my finest guard on this journey." He leaned forward and pale blue eyes pinned her.

"I am not worthy of such praise, my lord."

"And yet you think yourself best to take this quest?"

Anarwen quickly weighed half a dozen different replies. She worried that her request had angered him, but the need to take up the Elven-king's mission now burned strongly within her.

"I serve at your pleasure, my lord. I believe this quest honors my oath even though I will not be at your side. What I could accomplish will—"

A vague gesture from him cut off her words. Legolas rose from his chair and paced slowly toward the far end of his chambers. The room's simple furnishings hid the owner's rank. He paused at the farthest wall, which held one of the few visible luxuries. An elaborate tapestry filled the space between floor and ceiling. The Battle of Five Armies. He glanced back over his shoulder, and Anarwen moved to his side.

Silence stretched between them. Anarwen waited patiently. Her eyes moved over the fabric. Bolg, the great goblin leader of the North, drove a host of beasts against the forces of Men, Dwarves, and Elves. The battle raged along rocky spurs of the Lonely Mountain and in the valley before its Front Gate. A tide of red and black banners was driven back by an elf-charge led by Sador, the captain of Thranduil's guard. Anarwen's gaze found the Elven-king positioned atop Ravenhill, the southernmost spur of the mountain. Gandalf was there, along with the Halfling, Bilbo of the Shire. Below them and facing into the valley, a contingent of Elven archers fired into the goblin hoard. Legolas and his captain Duilin led the bowmen.

"Another time will come when free peoples must unite," he spoke quietly. "My father thinks to it."

"It was a great victory, my lord."

"He has witnessed great losses, too."

Anarwen nodded but did not reply. Thranduil had watched his father, Oropher, lead a charge against Sauron's forces during the Last Alliance of Men and Elves. Before the Black Gate of Mordor, Oropher and two-thirds of his army of Wood-elves had perished. Thranduil had survived but the shadow of memory had not dimmed between that Age and this one.

"I had planned to speak to my father about appointing you my captain."

Anarwen whipped her head around to stare at him in shock.

"Do not be so amazed. In truth, you have captained my company in all but rank for some time. It is my own fault that it has been so long…" His words faded away and he continued studying the tapestry. Anarwen did not need to follow Legolas's gaze to know it rested on the woven depiction of Duilin.

Moments passed before she spoke quietly. "We both know what you offer cannot be. Your guards and your subjects will have none other than a true Wood-elf to captain for the forest's favorite son."

His eyes snapped to hers. "Greenwood the Great has no truer daughter than you."

"Greenwood has been Mirkwood for all of my days in Arda." She gave him a small grin. "And there are still a few things you cannot will with your orders alone."

"_This_ I could forbid."

"Yes, my lord." And for a fleeting moment, she wished he would do exactly that. Sadness washed over her.

Silence overtook them again. She focused on the stone tiled floor and tried to calm herself. When she finally braved another look at him, she found him staring at her.

"I give you my blessing, Anarwen." He lifted a hand to his heart. "We will meet again after a turn of the seasons. Farewell until then."

Anarwen sank to one knee and bowed her head. "Upon my honor, my lord, I will serve you well."

* * *

A pale dawn sky stretched over the field outside the elf-caverns' gates. Anarwen's hands moved rapidly, making a last check of her horse, Sûl, and her supplies. Her senses flickered at the silent approach of an elf. She turned, expecting Dormallen to come running with some last piece of almost forgotten gear, but the _ellon_ who stopped next to her was the last person she expected. They stood in silence for a few moments. She should have known he would find out and confront her.

"I do not understand how he can think to allow this. What has happened that he would throw you away?"

Whatever accusation she had expected could not have surprised her as much as these words. Antion had spoken in hushed tones but his meaning was clear.

"It has been many years since you made such dim-witted assumptions, Antion. Do not seek to redress the lapse all in one morning." Anarwen grabbed the horse's mane to mount but a hand stayed her.

"I meant only that if he cared for you at all he would not permit this. Will you not reconsider? It cannot—"

"Small patience separates you from words that will sting in your ears until long ere I return," she spoke evenly but glared at Sûl's stamping hooves. "Move your hand."

"Please, I only wish to—"

"It would be infinitely better if you didn't."

"But—"

"Now."

The hand fell from Anarwen's wrist, and she swung up quickly. Much as she didn't want to, she found herself looking down into Antion's anxious face. This was not the way she had imagined her leave taking. _What is he doing here?_ Of all the things he could have said, urging her to stay seemed the most unlikely. And as he stood there before her, awkward and unsure of his next words, she felt her anger melt away. Suddenly he reached out once more, his hand covering her own.

"Safe journey, then, wherever you fare."

She turned Sûl toward Mirkwood's gloomy thicket. As the horse clattered across the stone bridge spanning the Forest River, she felt Antion's eyes mark her departure.

* * *

Anarwen left the safety of Thranduil's halls in mid November. Moving along a northwesterly path, she followed the Forest River until the eaves of Mirkwood parted and the Grey Mountains loomed before her. For long winter days she hiked across their foothills, fording the icy River Greylin, and making for Framsburg, the hill-fort long abandoned by ancestors of Rohan's horse-lords.

Boarding Sûl at Framsburg, she scouted on foot into the snowy lands of the goblins. At Mount Gundabad the Grey Mountains touched the northern reaches of the Misty Mountains, and it was from here that Bolg, the goblin-lord had marched his orcs toward the Battle of Five Armies. His death had left his forces scattered and aimless. The orc parties Anarwen spied did not number strong or organized enough to pose a threat to the Wood-elves. She mapped their positions and headed back to retrieve Sûl.

Southward they headed, passing along the edge of the Misty Mountains. Traveling both day and night, Anarwen set a steady pace. At dusk each day she charted the locations of orc and Warg packs that roamed this part of Rhovanion, but she could find no great strongholds of the Wood-elves' enemies.

The turn of the year found her in the elevations between the Eagles' Eyrie and the back door to Goblin-town. To free Bilbo and Thorin's company of dwarves, Gandalf had killed the Great Goblin that had once ruled there. It did not seem that any single orc has succeeded him.

As March turned the air slightly warmer, Anarwen made her way down from the Misty Mountains and into the lands of the Beornings. These clans of Men had long protected the trade routes between peoples east and west of the Misty Mountains. Few Men lived in this region divided by the Anduin, but those that did counted themselves friends of the Wood-elves. Here she found safe passage, opportunity to re-supply, and no questions about her journey.

It was also here that she found a curious book among a trader's dusty wares. Titled _Laws and Customs among the Eldar_, the little yellowed work seemed to have been written by a Man but focused entirely on the Elves. It spoke of their habits in marriage, their traditions in naming, the progress of their lives, and the immortality of their souls, or _fëar_, within Arda. The trader shrugged his shoulders when she asked where he had found the book. He parted with it for a few coins.

That afternoon she rested along the banks of the Anduin and lost herself in the book's passages. The Elves it spoke of were the Noldor, the High-elves who had once lived among the Valar, the Guardians of the world, before abadonding the Far West and making their way back to Middle-earth. As _Anor_ fled from the sky, Anarwen read of the great powers of the Eldar and the magic they wielded. In times of evil, Elf-lords strung across far lands were able to speak with each other and plan means of combating the Enemy. They had found a way to harness the grace of the Valar to communicate across the distances.

Darkening night finally forced the book from her hands. It had been four months since she had left her home. For Elves, such a short interval would have been barely noticeable, but Anarwen's childhood among Men had left her with the habit of measuring time closely. Lying amid tall grass along with river's shore, she stared up at the brightening stars and thought of nights spent among the Wood-elves. There would be elf-fires in Mirkwood tonight. Merry-making and song would be heard through the forest's northern eaves.

A fair face rose in her mind. _Legolas._ Sapphire eyes glittered in torch-light. _So beautiful_…

Alone and longing for home, Anarwen did not stop her mind's wanderings. And there he was, smiling, laughing. Pale, golden hair…the most glorious of the forest's sons.

Layers of black enshrouded her vision. Her mind drifted. Time guttered to nothingness. Within the enveloping darkness, she spoke not with words or thoughts but with a singing in her being. _Legolas... _Across the void, something opened to her. A feeling of serenity approached the boundaries of her senses. Near enough to touch, to know, but not of her. A separate presence welcomed her. _Legolas…_Swirling, shimmering radiance. Her _fëa_ kindled with the warmth. Suddenly a halo of flames flared along the edges. Blazing outward, it reached for her, burned the darkness away. _Shadow and flame..._fear, so much fear…_Run!_

* * *

Anarwen's eyes shot open. Breathing heavily, she swept her gaze across the forest clearing. Mist still clouded her view beyond more than a few feet. It took a few moments more to remember where she was. She touched her face gingerly, but her heated skin did not feel burnt. Memories of another time jumbled her thoughts. _Almost a year ago…_She had been near the Anduin then, and her discovery of Noldor magic had ended with a pleasurable dream, nothing more. But today her soul had crossed the void and… _Legolas…_

The pounding of her heart would not stop. The fear was overwhelming. And it was not her own. Somewhere, Legolas was looking into the darkness and seeing his end.


	12. A Journey Toward Dawn, Part 1

Written really, really slowly and with much respect for (but no ownership in) the works of J.R.R. Tolkein, Peter Jackson, Philippa Boyens, and Fran Walsh.

15 January, 3019. Third Age.

Anarwen leapt to her feet. Eyes raking the misty forest, she strained to locate any movement, hear any sound. A slight wind sent the trees murmuring, but the hushed noise was drowned out by an echo in her head. _Run! _The tranquil surroundings were in sharp contrast to the images of shadow and flame that flickered in her mind's eye. Her breath came in short gasps. The fear, so overwhelming that her hands trembled…somehow she knew it was Legolas. The presence of another, as if both of them were joined in one body, thrummed under her skin. Sensation and thought jumbled together, passing back and forth across the void so that fear and confusion wracked them equally.

"Move, now," she muttered fiercely. Unused limbs lurched forward. Wherever Legolas was, she had to find him. Mist-shrouded ground flew under her silent footfalls. Daylight had come sometime during her reverie, but the unseen sky above must have been too clouded to cast shadows within the forest. There was nothing to guide her direction except the sense of the Elven prince. It had to be enough.

Swiftly she ran across a landscape of twisted trees and low scrub. Time passed without meaning. The ground, which had been even under her feet when she started, began to slope upward. For a brief moment she wondered how long it might take to find the ledge the Company had traveled along. Flashes of that snowstorm overtook her thoughts. The memory of Gandalf's incantation booming across the mountain pass sent a chill along her spine, followed by the churning feeling of her remembered fall. Something vibrated along the bond with Legolas, and in that momentary sensation, Anarwen knew her tenuous grip on him was ebbing away.

A hidden tree root sent her stumbling. She caught herself against the tree's massive trunk and pressed her forehead against its solid body. Logic, training, discipline—all cried out for her to stop, that she didn't know where she was going or how far away Legolas could be by now. But the flagging bond between their souls was all she cared about. Her path was taking her toward him; that was the only certainty. _Fly!_

The elven-girl sprang forward again, long limbs erasing the distance between one tree and the next, one rocky outcrop and another ahead. The landscape continued to angle upward, becoming steeper as hours passed unnoticed. Anarwen was only faintly aware of her surroundings. Drifts of snow had become more prevalent with the day's passage. Tall oaks had given way to towering pines. The light of Anor had brightened enough to dissipate some of the mist.

None of it made any impression as Anarwen bent her mind to the link between herself and Legolas. The sensation of him, so real when she had awakened, was only a faint shadow now. Her throat tightened at the knowledge that the bond would be lost in moments. Frantically she summoned memories of him, hoping against all odds that she could bolster the strange tie to him.

Slowly at first, hampered by her body's exertions and her tangled emotions, images of him kindled in her mind. Turning an arrow lightly in his fingertips, bending over a map in his quarters, riding alongside her during a patrol, walking through the Elven-king's halls, laughing at something she had said and teasing her with his reply…A thousand simple moments in their time together, each coming more rapidly than the one before. Each memory, each image so small, so precious that holding it too tightly threatened to crush it to nothingness. Faster and faster they washed over her. A tide of twenty years at his side. And then just as the forested slope gave way to an alpine clearing, the sun broke through the clouds and cast a piercing ray directly in her face.

Colors exploded behind Anarwen's eyes. Blindly, she lurched to a stop. Her heart pounded in her chest, but sensations from the past blotted out the present. A screen of golden light seemed so very near. Although they touched nothing, her fingertips tingled as if tracing another's skin. That awful day on the shores of the River Carnen. Legolas had held her poisoned body tightly in his arms when it seemed that death had come to part them. _You musn't…_

Anarwen pressed hands to her head and tried to pull herself back from the abyss. _You…There is only you… _"Stop," she whispered. "Please, stop." Her eyes fluttered open. The small clearing was bathed in afternoon sunlight. Clutches of small white flowers sent a sweet fragrance into the air. Her breathing slowed and she struggled to focus on the scene before her. At the far edge of the clearing, a massive boulder broke through the tree line. Beyond it, the forested slope resumed its rapid rise. For the first time that day, Anarwen had a clear view up the mountain side. She stared upward at the vast stretch of trees fading into complete snow cover. The mountain's summit was hidden in gray clouds.

Walking slowing across the clearing, she scanned snow drifts far up the slope. Winter white landscape glittered at the touch of Anor. Methodically, she checked the vista in each direction, but one section of the mountain looked as foreign and unknown as another. And it was then that a sinking feeling entered her heart.

The rocky boulder ahead jutted out from the mountainside. Hand over hand, she scrambled up its face until she reached its top and turned around slowly. From this perch, the view opened out over the downslope forest and across a broad span to another mountain's snow-covered landscape. Her breath caught in her throat. Shrouded by patches of fog in some places, hidden entirely under snow in others, a narrow ledge wound its way across the distant slope.

In disbelief, Anarwen followed its uneven course to her left, a path she now knew to be westward, until she saw a jagged edge where one side of the ledge was severed from the other. She bit her lip hard enough to drawn blood. A smooth plane of snow stretched down from the gash. With stinging eyes, she followed the slide lower and lower until she found it. Only Elven sight could have spotted it, and the wretched irony of that was too much to endure. There in the distance, mid-slope on another mountain, a Mirkwood bow pierced the white drifts.

"Noooooooooooo!" Her voice echoed out across the span separating Caradhras the Cruel from where she stood. The sensation she had been so quick to name as Legolas had led her away from the Fellowship's path through the Misty Mountains. In aching defeat, Anarwen sank to her knees. The boulder beneath her belonged to Celebdil, the mass that towered over the Mines of Moria. She was on the wrong mountainside.

Silent snow had fallen for hours before Anarwen raised her head. Tears of anger and hopelessness had come and gone. She scooped up a small handful of snow and wiped it roughly over her face. Pinpricks of cold dotted her cheeks. She uncurled her knees from her chest and dragged her eyes slowly across the landscape once more.

Night had fallen while she had sat on the boulder, pressing her forehead to her knees and rocking herself into numbness. The canopy of stars was largely hidden by thick clouds. Darkness that would have spared most others, though, was no match for her keen Elven eyesight. In the far distance, the ledge mocked her. She forced herself to stare at it until the wash of shame had passed.

At a measured pace, Anarwen followed the line of the ledge eastward. From the gash that marked her fall days ago, she traced sharp twists and turns, until the track was swallowed by treetops that lined her view. In four, maybe five other places, the path was either buried in a wall of snow or cleaved in two. Saruman's spells had done their work. Even if she were to make her way back down the slope of Celebdil and up to the Redhorn Pass, the ledge itself looked impassible. Haltingly she reached out with her senses once more, trying to find some brief twinge that might mean that Legolas was…

_Fool! There is nothing there. Only your mind playing tricks. He is gone. Gone._

Too drained to think any more, Anarwen climbed gingerly off the boulder and once again found herself in a forest of towering, mist-shrouded pines. She picked her way carefully through the darkness. Her feet moved in an easterly path, but not for any particular reason. There was just the sensation of moving forward, from one tree to the next, as if comfort could be found in the ground disappearing behind her.

Hours slide away. Finally, Anarwen reached another rocky outcropping and found a shallow cave at its base. The inky blackness enveloped her. Emptied of all thought and feeling, she huddled on the dry floor, staring out through the cave's mouth. White snow fell in heavy silence.

16 January, 3019. Third Age.

The steel blade reflected the dim light of a new day. Holding her white knife at arm's length, Anarwen studied the smooth, dark surface. Unlike the knives wielded by the heir of Mirkwood, this blade was perfectly plain. No etching or engraving marred its tapered length. It was a simple, clean design, honed on only one side. She angled the tip toward the cave's ceiling. The curved handle fit perfectly in her grip. Had it been an Elven design, it might have borne some inscription, words to give the weapon strength and magic. But this blade had been forged by a Man, and she would not have had its elegance diminished by any marking. It had been her father's gift to her before she left home for the Woodland realm.

"I am so very proud of you, my daughter" he had said. Fumbling hands had held hers briefly, and she had bent a little so that he could press a kiss to her forehead. As she pulled away, he had suddenly caught her hands again and whispered, "You must be with your mother's people now. Do not come back here." Tears had watered his aged eyes. "Do not come back."

She was forty years old that year, still a child to the Elves whose world she traveled towards. Old enough, though, that the difference between an Elven-girl and Laketown's other youth had become starkly apparent. Men, the second children of Eru, tarried briefly in this world. One by one, childhood friends had aged into adults, married, and borne children of their own. Some had died, and their passing had been deeply painful. There was no second life for Men once the coffin lid closed. Anarwen's father had not wanted her to watch over his own end. He had sent his only child away and died alone seven years later.

Anarwen slide the blade back into its scabbard and looked towards the cave mouth. Snow had ceased falling at daybreak. Soft sunlight filtered down through the roof of tree branches. It would a pleasant day to travel.

_Assuming one knew where to go_, she thought ruefully.

Whatever sensation she had felt yesterday, relying on it had been a mistake. Only cold logic could help her now. But in the hours that had passed between night and dawn, logic had provided little comfort.

Idly, Anarwen drew her finger across the dirt floor. The Redhorn Pass. The Company's original route through the Misty Mountains. She had seen the devastation that Sarumen had inflicted on that path. The others could not have taken it much farther after her fall. No, they must have turned back. _But then where?_

Directly north of the pass were two mountains, Redhorn itself, known to the Elves as Caradhras, and Fanuidhol. Facing the pass to the south was Celebdil, whose peak rose above the Dwarf halls of Moria. To the north and south of these elevations, the Misty Mountains spread for some 900 miles, a vast divide across the face of Middle-earth.

The Redhorn Pass was the easiest way through the range, the best choice for a fellowship that included Hobbits and a pack horse, but it was not the only one. Nearly eighty years ago, Bilbo and his Dwarf companions had taken a northern route during their journey to the Lonely Mountain. But that course was also north of Rivendell. Gandalf would not have let Sarumen send them backtracking to Elrond's home.

Aragorn had said there were no passes south of Celebdil. The only choice in that direction was to head for the southernmost end of the Misty Mountains and travel east through the Gap of Rohan. But that would have sent them through Dunland, where Saruman's spies would have tracked their every step, and put them nearly on the wizard's doorstep at Isengard.

Gimli, of course, had wanted to go under the mountain barrier. _Moria._ Anarwen stared at her rough map in the dirt and suppressed a shudder. Gandalf had been firm about that, though. And she could not believe that Aragorn or Legolas would willingly enter that cursed realm.

By Anarwen's best guess, Gandalf must have taken the Company back down the ledge and into the Hollin foothills. Perhaps he or Aragorn knew of some other pass near to the north. She has tracked some of that country on the opposite side of the range. But the Misty Mountains were full of cheats and deceptions. A traveler who did not know the way usually had his guesses rewarded with death. At best, trying to find the Company's path now would be shooting in the dark.

From the slopes of Celebdil, she had few options. To the north, there was only the broken pass of Caradhras. To the east and west, Celebdil's slopes fell in sheer cliffs above the Gates of Moria. Her route had to be down Celebdil's southern spur. She estimated she was halfway across the northern face. If she could continue farther around, picking her way above the eastern cliffs, she could reach the southern face in several days. From there, the slope descended gradually into foothills. She could escape the mountains by following the source of the River Nimrodel down to the enchanted wood of Lothlórien.

Anarwen traced a tiny line representing the river's course and a faint smile touched her lips. The forested realm was home to Lord Celeborn and Lady Galadriel, who were among the Elves long-time foes to Sauron and all his deceits. In Lothlórien, she could take counsel from the Lord and the Lady and learn how best to rejoin the quest.

Rising to her feet, Anarwen stood at the cave's mouth and considered the brightening light of day. "As sun upon the golden boughs in Lórien the fair…" she whispered and set out for the Golden Wood.

AN:

Yes, 1,000 interruptions later and still the chapter isn't finished. Only one scene remains to be written and then we can go find the pretty elf boy.

The chapter (actually most of this story) was greatly assisted by _The Atlas of Middle-earth_ by the late Karen Wynn Fonstad. Like Bilbo and Anarwen, I'm a big map geek.


End file.
